My Inheritance
by aryaeragonfan
Summary: This is basically Inheritance by CP.Im sort of rewriting the whole thing but im keeping the general plot of the story the same and change the ending. Most of it will be told from Arya's POV unlike the previous books. Hope you guys enjoy.
1. INTO THE BREACH

Ch 1. **INTO THE BREACH**

The dragon Saphira roared and the men before her quailed.

"With me!" shouted Eragon as he lifted Brisingr for all to see. "For the Varden!"

An arrow flew past him startling Arya for a second but he paid it no mind.

The warriors at the base of the mountain of rubble in which he and Saphira were standing atop of brandished their weapons and responded with a bellow. "The Varden!" they cried. Then the army charged deeper into the city of Belatona and engaged the opposition in combat.

Arya ran into a group of Galbatorix's soldiers gathered in a wide courtyard in front of a large, gloomy keep. Somewhere within, she knew, was the governor of Belatona, Lord Bradburn. Arya parried a thrust from one of the soldiers as she approached them and with incredible speed, faster than any human, dwarf, Urgal, or most elves, lopped off his head. She danced through the batallion slashing, stabbing, and blocking with ease as her long, black hair whipped furiously around her face. In a matter of minutes, half the group was slain by the elf princess.

With blue and yellow flames streaming from her maw, Saphira jumped and landed right beside Arya. The whole courtyard shook from the impact and the glass that formed a large mosaic in front of the keep shattered.

_Leave some two-legs for the rest of us_, Saphira said to her

Arya was slightly amused. _Of course, Saphira. Take down as many as you wish_.

Saphira let out a mighty roar and the windows in the surrounding buildings shattered.

Beside Saphira stood her Rider, Eragon. His smooth, angular face had a fierce expression on it. There was blood on his sword and all over his muscular arms.

His presence heartened Arya. She would not have anyone else fight alongside her; mainly because he was the best fighter she knew in the Varden besides herself and maybe Blödhgarm.

He loosened a quick smile at her and she responded in kind.

Arya ducked behind her shield as a sheet of blue fire appeared between them. Saphira bathed the soldiers with flames but it passed harmlessly around them. Archers on the battlements of the castle fired arrows at Saphira. Some of the arrows burst into fire midair while the wards Eragon placed around Saphira deflected the rest. He had placed wards around Arya as well. She had told him not to waste his own strength and that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself but he would not listen.

_ Sometimes his feelings cloud his mind. Of course, it's Eragon. What else did I expect? _ She thought with a smile.

Saphira gave up on trying to burn the soldiers alive and snapped her jaw shut. The absence of the fire left the courtyard startlingly quiet.

_Who has given the soldiers their wards? _Arya wondered. _It obviously was a powerful magician such as Murtagh or even Galbatorix himself. Why then isn't Murtagh and Thorn here to defend Belatona? Does Galbatorix want us to capture his entire empire and march straight to Urû'baen?_

Pushing these thoughts aside, Arya joined Eragon on his right flank. They waded through the ranks of soldiers. The soldiers' reactions seemed slow and clumsly to Arya. She was able to slice through them as easily as a piece of cloth. Every swing of her sword signaled death for another servant of the Empire.

Behind them, Blödhgarm and his eleven spellcasters were also engaged in battle. They were sent by Arya's mother, Queen Islanzadi, to protect Eragon and Saphira, as they were their only hope to ever overthrowing the madman from his throne.

The battle soon swept her apart from Eragon and Saphira. A soldier tried to attack her with a spear, but she grabbed it out of his hands and thrust it into his gut. The arrows from the archers above were starting to irritate her. She looked up at them and said, " Deyja." Nothing happened. The soldiers' wards protected them from magical attacks.

Arya soon spotted Eragon again and fought her way to him. Eragon picked up a spear and tried to throw it at the archers but missed the _entire_ line of archers. Arya held back a giggle. _He needs some serious practice_ she thought. The archers on top laughed at Eragon and made rude gestures at him which angered Arya somewhat. She strode over next to Eragon, picked up a spear, and launched it at the archers impaling two of them who were standing close to each other. She then pointed at the spear with her sword and yelled "Brisingr!" and the spear erupted into green flames. The archers cowered away from the burning corpses and fled the battlements.

"That's not fair," Eragon said. "I can't use that spell, not without my sword flaring up like a bonfire."

Arya gazed at him, amused

The fighting continued for another few minutes. The remaining soldiers either surrendered or tried to flee. Some of the Varden had opened the gates in the outer wall and were hauling in a huge battering ram to the castle. Others were assembled next to the keep door to confront the soldiers within. Arya saw Eragon's cousin, Roran, among them giving commands to the group of soldiers under his command who followed his orders without question. _He has the ability to lead _Arya thought. _Just like his cousin._

A roar of triumph from Saphira drowned out the clamor of the city.

Then suddenly from inside the castle, Arya heard the rattles of gears and chains and heavy wooden beams being drawn back. Everyone's gaze was now focused on the door.

With a _boom,_ the doors swung open and a cloud of smoke from the torches inside billowed outside. Arya coughed and covered her face as did most of the Varden's soldiers.

Then, out of the smoke, came a horse and rider. The rider held some sort of lance in his left hand. It was made of a strange green material and had a barbed blade. A glow aurrounded the head of the lance and the presence of magic was clear. Arya gasped. She hoped the weapon was not what she thought it was.

The rider angled his horse toward Saphira. At that point Arya had no doubt that she knew what the weapon was. Saphira began to rear on her hind legs and kill the rider with a swipe of her paw. Arya knew she had to do something. _Saphira's in danger_ she thought. _Her wards won't protect her from this…this weapon._ She was too far away to try to stop the rider so she resorted to magic. She started uttering a frenzied spell along with the elven spellcasters. The magic took effect and the mosaic in front of the horse stirred and shifted, and the chips of glass flowed like water. A crevice opened up in the ground and the horse pitched forward breaking its legs.

As the horse and rider fell, the man threw the lance at Saphira.

_No!_ Arya mentally screamed.

Saphira could not run or dodge. She tried to knock it aside but she missed by a matter of inches and the lance sank at least a yard into her chest, underneath her collarbone. Blödhgarm then leaped over Saphira's left foreleg, jumped and the rider and knocked him over, and sank his white teeth into his throat.

Arya was slightly disgusted. _ He could have killed him with a sword or a spear. Or with magic instead or tearing into him like an animal. _But her thoughts soon turned back to Saphira and she ran to the dragon's side along with Eragon and the other elves.

"How badly-Is she—" Eragon said, obviously too upset to complete his sentences. The elves started observing the damage to Saphira.

After a few moments, one of the elves, Wyrden, said, "You may thank fate Shadeslayer; the lance missed the major veins and arteries in her neck. It hit only muscle, and muscle we can mend."

"Can you remove it?" Eragon asked." Does it have any spells that would keep it from being-"

"We shall attend to it Shadeslayer," said Wyrden.

Arya and the other elves, save Blödhgarm, placed their hands on Saphira's breast and sang incantations of muscle and sinew and pulsing blood. Saphira uttered a long, low moan as the lance emerged from her body. The barbed blade fell to the ground and bounced against the stones.

Eragon ran to Saphira and asked,"All you alright?" Arya could plainly see that he was very worried about her. Saphira replied with a single blink, then lowered her head and caressed his face with a gentle puff of warm air.

Eragon smiled and then turned to Arya and the rest of the elves and said, "Eka elrun ono, alfya, wiol forn thornessa," thanking them in the ancient language for their help. The elves in turn bowed and twisted their right hands over the center of their chests.

Arya then rushed from Saphira's side and with Blödhgarm, went to inspect the lance. It was exactly what Arya had thought it was when she first saw it wielded in the rider's hand. She exchanged glances with Blödhgarm.

_How can this be_ she wondered.

Eragon joined them after a few moments and squatted next to the lance, observing it carefully.

"Is it Galbaotrix's handiwork, do you think?" Eragon asked. "Maybe he's decided he would rather kill Saphira and me instead of capturing us. Maybe he believes we've actually become a threat to him."

Blödhgarm smiled an unpleasant smile. "I would not deceive myself with such fantasies, Shadeslayer. We are no more than a minor annoyance to Galbatorix. If ever he truly wanted you or any of us dead, he only needs to fly forth from Urû'baen and engage us directly in battle, and we would fall before him like dry leaves before a winter strength of the dragons is with him, and none can withstand his might. Besides, Galbatorix is not so easily turned from his course. Mad he may be, but cunning also, and above all else, determined. If he desires your enslavement, then he shall pursue that goal to the point of obsession, and nothing save the instinct of selfpreservation shall deter him."

"In any event," said Arya, "this is not Galbatorix's handiwork; it is ours."

Eragon frowned. "Ours? This wasn't made by the Varden."

"Not by the Varden, but by an elf."

"But—" he said. ""But no elf would agree to work for Galbatorix. They would rather die than—"

"Galbatorix had nothing to do with this, and even if he did, he would hardly give such a rare and powerful weapon to a man who could not better guard it. Of all the instruments of war scattered throughout Alagaësia, this is the one Galbatorix would least want us to have."

"Why?"

Böldhgarm responded this time. "Because, Eragon Shadeslayer, _this_ is a Dauthdaert."

"And its name is Niernen, The Orchid," said Arya. She pointed at the elven glyphs carved into the blade.

"A Dauthdaert?"

Arya and Blödhgarm gave him look of incredulity. _ He's never heard of a Dauthdaert? _ Arya thought.

Eragon shrugged and said, "I could only do so much reading in Ellesméra. What is it? Was it forged during the fall of the Riders, to use against Galbatorix and the Forsworn?"

Blödhgarm shook his head. "Niernen is far, far older than that."

"The Dauthdaertya," said Arya, "were born out of the fear and the hate that marked the final years of our war with the dragons. Our most skilled smiths and spellcasters crafted them out of materials we no longer understand, imbued them with enchantments whose wordings we no longer remember, and named them, all twelve of them, after the most beautiful of flowers—as ugly a mismatch as ever there was—for we made them with but one purpose in mind: we made them to kill dragons."

"And did they?" Eragon asked. The revulsion his was probably feeling was clearly present in his facial expression.

"Those who were present say that the dragons' blood rained from the sky like a summer downpour."

Saphira hissed, loud and sharp.

"All of the Dauthdaertya were thought to have been destroyed or lost beyond recovery," said Blödhgarm. "Obviously, we were mistaken. Niernen must have passed into the hands of the Waldgrave family, and they must have kept it hidden here in Belatona. I would guess that when we breached the city walls, Lord Bradburn's courage failed him and he ordered Niernen brought from his armory in an attempt to stop you and Saphira. No doubt Galbatorix would be angry beyond reason if he knew that Bradburn had tried to kill you."

"Dauthdaert or not," Eragon said, "You still haven't explained why Galbatorix wouldn't want us to have this." He motioned toward the lance. "What makes Niernen any more dangerous than that spear over there, or even Bris—" he caught himself before he uttered the entire name, "or my own sword?"

It was Arya who answered. "It cannot be broken by any normal means, cannot be harmed by fire, and is almost completely impervious to magic, as you yourself saw. The Dauthdaertya were designed to be unaffected by whatever spells the dragons might work and to protect their wielder from the same—a daunting prospect, given the strength, complexity, and unexpected nature of dragons' magic. Galbatorix may have wrapped Shruikan and himself in more wards than anyone else in Alagaësia, but it is possible that Niernen could pass through their defenses as if they don't even exist."

Eragon started to say," We have to-"

A squeal interrupted him. The sound was stabbing, slicing, shivering, like metal scraping against stone. Arya's gaze swept over the courtyard and noticed a faint puff of dust rising up the wall of the keep from a foot-wide crack that had appeared beneath a blackened, partially destroyed window.

"Look!" Eragon shouted to Arya, who nodded in acknowledgment. Suddenly, the sound stopped.

The crack jerked open wider—spreading until it was several feet across—and raced down the wall of the keep. Like a bolt of lightning, the crack struck and shattered the keystone above the doors to the building, showering the floor below with pebbles. The whole castle groaned, and from the damaged window to the broken keystone, the front of the keep began to lean outward.

"Run!" Eragon shouted at the Varden, though the men were already scattering to either side of the courtyard, desperate to get out from under the precarious wall.

Arya was already bounding away from the wall. After she was out of harm's way, she turned around, looking for Eragon. She spotted him looking at the doorway and followed his gaze. She saw Roran who was being pelted with rocks and was forced to stumble backward under the overhang of the doorway.

_He's not going to make It _Arya thought.

A wry smile touched Roran's lips as he looked at Eragon.

Then the wall fell.


	2. HAMMERFALL

Ch 2: **HAMMERFALL**

The wall of the castle tumbled down, burying Roran and five other men. The mound of stone was over twenty feet high. The impact sent a cloud of black dust flying over the courtyard.

Arya took a sharp intake of breath and then doubled over, coughing and rubbing her eyes. She looked up at the keep after recovering and saw that the rubble from the building had spilled into the courtyard and that three of the rooms inside were exposed.

Arya returned her gaze back to Eragon who was running towards the rubble. Without a second thought, she told one of the other elves to hide the Dauthdaert and caught up to Eragon with her sword in hand.

Arya followed Eragon as he jumped from stone to stone and lunged to the second story of the building and raced across the room. He shoved the door in front of him with such force that it got torn of its hinges and went flying. They raced across the corridor, Eragon in front and Arya trailing behind. He slowed in front of an open doorway to discover a group of men looking at a map, arguing. Then, he continued his sprint.

Arya had no idea where they were going. But she knew that her main responsibility was to keep the Rider safe and she couldn't let him go off on his own in a castle where there were soldiers and probably magicians.

As she rounded the corner after him, she saw Eragon punch a soldier in the stomach, smashing him into the ceiling killing him.

"Me," said Eragon to the soldier and then continued down the corridor. Arya let out a sigh like an exasperated mother and gave chase. _He probably doesn't even realize that I'm here._

At the end of the hall, there was a spiraling staircase which they took five steps at a time. The emerged into a chamber whose walls were adorned with shields, weapons, and pennants. To the right stood a group of fifty or more soldiers and a robed man staring at Eragon with surprise.

"Kill him!" the robed man ordered sounding frightened. ""Whosoever kills him shall have a third of my treasure! So I promise!"

He tore his sword from its scabbard, lifted it over his head, and shouted "Brisingr!" With a rush of air, blue flames sprang into existence around the blade, running up toward the tip. Then Eragon lowered his gaze to the soldiers. "Move," he growled. The soldiers hesitated a moment more, then turned and fled. He took off again through the double doors that led into another chamber.

Arya's started after him but the soldiers stepped in front of her. One of them stepped forward to try and hold her down but she swung her sword and dispatched his neck from his soldiers. Expressions of weariness started to cross the faces of the other men but they started forward and engaged her in a fight.

Just as she had before, Arya flowed through the contingent, killing several of them with just a few blows. As she spun around, dodging a stab to her head, she noticed Blödhgarm behind her also fighting his way through the soldiers. Together, they eliminated the group within a matter of seconds and ran into the chamber Eragon had gone into.

The chamber was full of gears, pulleys, and other mechanisms for opening and closing the gates of the keep. Arya spotted Eragon cutting into the portcullis with Brisingr, creating an opening large enough to walk through and then rushed into the passage. She followed him with Blödhgarm right behind her as they turned left and right and left again. They finally reached a vestibule covered with debris. Even with her elf vision, Arya could only make out the largest shaped in the darkness.

Then Eragon said, "Naina" and a blue light appeared and illuminated the space. There, amidst the pile of rubble, Arya saw Roran covered in dirt, blood, ash, and sweat, wrestling with another soldier. The sudden brightness caused the soldier to flinch and Roran took the chance to take the dagger fro m his belt and stab him through the throat.

Roran rose from the body, looked over at Eragon, and said, "About time you-."

Then, he fainted.


	3. SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON

**There will be some chapters, such as this one, that are the same as Christopher Paolini's Inheritance. I just think it's important to keep some parts of the story in Eragon's point of view.**

**This chapter and the next will be from Eragon's POV as well as the part where he sings the cradle song and his trip to Vroengard. The story will be back to Arya's POV in Chapter 5.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own this. This belongs to Christopher Paolini.**

Ch 3: **SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON**

In order to catch Roran before he struck the floor, Eragon had to drop Brisingr, which he was reluctant to do. Nevertheless, he opened his hand, and the sword clattered against the stones even as Roran's weight settled into his arms.

"Is he badly hurt?" Arya asked.

Eragon flinched, surprised to find her and Blödhgarm standing next to him. "I don't think so." He patted Roran's cheeks several times, smearing the dust on his skin. In the flat, ice-blue glare of Eragon's spell, Roran appeared gaunt, his eyes surrounded by bruised shadows, and his lips a purplish color, as if stained with the juice from berries. "Come on, wake up."

After a few seconds, Roran's eyelids twitched; then he opened them and looked at Eragon, obviously confused. Relief washed over Eragon, so strong he could taste it.

"You blacked out for a moment," he explained.

"Ah."

_He's alive! _Eragon said to Saphira, risking a brief moment of contact.

Her pleasure was obvious. _Good. I will stay here and help the elves move the stones away from the building. If you need me, shout, and I'll find a way to reach you_.

Roran's mail tinkled as Eragon helped him onto his feet.

"What of the others?" Eragon asked, and gestured toward the mound of rubble.

Roran shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"No one could have survived under there. I only escaped because … because I was partially sheltered by the eaves."

"And you? You're all right?" Eragon asked.

"What?" Roran frowned, seeming distracted, as if the thought had not even occurred to him. "I'm fine.… Wrist might be broken. It's not bad."

Eragon cast a meaningful glance at Blödhgarm. The elf's features tightened with a faint display of displeasure, but he went over to Roran and, in a smooth voice, said, "If I may.…" He extended a hand toward Roran's injured arm. While Blödhgarm labored over Roran, Eragon picked up Brisingr, then stood guard with Arya at the entrance in case any soldiers were so foolhardy as to launch an attack.

"There, all done," Blödhgarm said. He moved away from Roran, who rolled his wrist in a circle, testing the joint.

Satisfied, Roran thanked Blödhgarm, then lowered his hand and cast about the rubble-strewn floor until he found his hammer. He readjusted the position of his armor and looked out the entrance. "I've about had my fill of this Lord Bradburn," he said in a deceptively calm tone. "He has held his seat overlong, I think, and ought to be relieved of his responsibilities. Wouldn't you agree, Arya?"

"I would," she said.

"Well then, let's find the soft-bellied old fool; I would give him a few gentle taps from my hammer in memory of everyone we have lost today."

"He was in the main hall a few minutes ago," Eragon said, "but I doubt he stayed to await our return."

Roran nodded. "Then we'll have to hunt him down." And with that, he strode forward. Eragon extinguished his illuminating spell and hurried after his cousin, holding Brisingr at the ready. Arya and Blödhgarm stayed as close beside him as the convoluted passageway would allow. The chamber that the passageway led to was abandoned, as was the main hall of the castle, where the only evidence of the dozens of soldiers and officials who had populated it was a helmet that lay on the floor, rocking back and forth in ever-decreasing arcs.

Eragon and Roran ran past the marble dais, Eragon restricting his speed so as not to leave Roran behind. They kicked down a door just to the left of the platform and rushed up the stairs beyond.

At each story, they paused so that Blödhgarm could search with his mind for any trace of Lord Bradburn and his retinue, but he found none. As they reached the third level, Eragon heard a stampede of footsteps and saw a thicket of jabbing spears fill the curved archway in front of Roran. The spears cut Roran on the cheek and on his right thigh, coating his knee with blood. He bellowed like a wounded bear and rammed into the spears with his shield, trying to push his way up the last few steps and out of the stairwell. Men shouted frantically.

Behind Roran, Eragon switched Brisingr to his left hand, then reached around his cousin, grabbed one of the spears by the haft, and yanked it out of the grip of whoever was holding it. He flipped the spear around and threw it into the center of the men packed in the archway. Someone screamed, and a gap appeared in the wall of bodies.

Eragon repeated the process, and his throws soon reduced the number of soldiers enough that, step by step, Roran was able to force the mass of men back. As soon as Roran won clear of the stairs, the twelve remaining soldiers scattered across a wide landing fringed with balustrades, each man seeking room to swing his weapon without obstruction. Roran bellowed again and leaped after the nearest soldier. He parried the man's sword, then stepped past his guard and struck the man on his helm, which rang like an iron pot.

Eragon sprinted across the landing and tackled a pair of soldiers who were standing close together. He knocked them to the ground, then dispatched each of them with a single thrust of Brisingr. An ax hurtled toward him, whirling end over end. He ducked and pushed a man over a balustrade before engaging two others who were trying to disembowel him with billed pikes.

Then Arya and Blödhgarm were moving among the men, silent and deadly, the elves' inherent grace making the violence appear more like an artfully staged performance than the sordid struggle most fights were.

In a rush of clanging metal, broken bones, and severed limbs, the four of them killed the rest of the soldiers. As always, the combat exhilarated Eragon; it felt to him like being shocked with a bucket of cold water, and it left him with a sense of clarity unequaled by any other activity.

Roran bent over and rested his hands on his knees, gasping for air as if he had just finished a race.

"Shall I?" asked Eragon, gesturing at the cuts on Roran's face and thigh.

Roran tested his weight on the wounded leg a few times. "I can wait. Let's find Bradburn first."

Eragon took the lead as they filed back into the stairwell and resumed their climb. At last, after another five minutes of searching, they found Lord Bradburn barricaded within the highest room of the keep's westernmost tower. With a series of spells, Eragon, Arya, and Blödhgarm disassembled the doors and the tower of furniture piled behind them.

As they and Roran entered the chambers, the high-ranking retainers and castle guards who had gathered in front of Lord Bradburn blanched, and many began to shake. To Eragon's relief, he only had to kill three of the guards before the rest of the group placed their weapons and shields on the floor in surrender.

Then Arya marched over to Lord Bradburn, who had remained silent throughout, and said, "Now, will you order your forces to stand down? Only a few remain, but you can still save their lives."

"I would not even if I could," said Bradburn in a voice of such hate and sneering derision, Eragon almost struck him. "You'll have no concessions from me, elf. I'll not give up my men to filthy, unnatural creatures such as you. Death would be preferable. And do not think you can beguile me with honeyed words. I know of your alliance with the Urgals, and I would sooner trust a snake than a person who breaks bread with those monsters."

Arya nodded and placed her hand over Bradburn's face. She closed her eyes, and for a time, both she and Bradburn were motionless. Eragon reached out with his mind, and he felt the battle of wills that was raging between them as Arya worked her way past Bradburn's defenses and into his consciousness. It took a minute, but at last she gained control of the man's mind, whereupon she set about calling up and examining his memories until she discovered the nature of his wards.

Then she spoke in the ancient language and cast a complex spell designed to circumvent those wards and to put Bradburn to sleep. When she finished, Bradburn's eyes closed and, with a sigh, he collapsed into her arms.

"She killed him!" shouted one of the guards, and cries of fear and outrage spread among the men.

As Eragon attempted to convince them otherwise, he heard one of the Varden's trumpets being winded far off in the distance. Soon another trumpet sounded, this one much closer, then another, and then he caught snatches of what he would have sworn were faint, scattered cheers rising from the courtyard below. Puzzled, he exchanged glances with Arya; then they turned in a circle, looking out each of the windows set within the walls of the chamber.

To the west and south lay Belatona. It was a large, prosperous city, one of the largest in the Empire. Close to the castle, the buildings were imposing structures made of stone, with pitched roofs and oriel windows, while farther away they were constructed of wood and plaster. Several of the half-timbered buildings had caught fire during the fighting. The smoke filled the air with a layer of brown haze that stung eyes and throats.

To the southwest, a mile beyond the city, was the Varden's camp: long rows of gray woolen tents ringed by stake-lined trenches, a few brightly colored pavilions sporting flags and pennants, and stretched out on the bare ground, hundreds of wounded men. The healers' tents were already filled to capacity.

To the north, past the docks and warehouses, was Leona Lake, a vast expanse of water dotted with the occasional whitecap.

Above, the wall of black clouds that was advancing from the west loomed high over the city, threatening to envelop it within the folds of rain that fell skirtlike from its underside. Blue light flickered here and there in the depths of the storm, and thunder rumbled like an angry beast. But nowhere did Eragon see an explanation for the commotion that had attracted his attention.

He and Arya hurried over to the window directly above the courtyard. Saphira and the men and elves working with her had just finished clearing away the stones in front of the keep. Eragon whistled, and when Saphira looked up, he waved. Her long jaws parted in a toothy grin, and she blew a streamer of smoke toward him.

"Ho! What news?" Eragon shouted.

One of the Varden standing on the castle walls raised an arm and pointed eastward. "Shadeslayer! Look! The werecats are coming! The werecats are coming!"

A cold tingle crawled down Eragon's spine. He followed the line of the man's arm eastward, and this time he saw a host of small, shadowy figures emerging from a fold in the land several miles away, on the other side of the Jiet River. Some of the figures went on four legs and some on two, but they were too far away for him to be sure if they were werecats.

"Could it be?" asked Arya, sounding amazed.

"I don't know.… Whatever they are, we'll find out soon enough."


	4. KING CAT

**As said before, this chapter is also from Eragon's POV and it is the same as the chapter in Inheritance.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own this. This belongs to Christopher Paolini.**

Ch 4: **KING CAT**

Eragon stood on the dais in the main hall of the keep, directly to the right of Lord Bradburn's throne, his left hand on the pommel of Brisingr, which was sheathed. On the other side of the throne stood Jörmundur—senior commander of the Varden—holding his helmet in the crook of his arm. The hair at his temples was streaked with gray; the rest was brown, and all of it was pulled back into a long braid. His lean face bore the studiously blank expression of a person who had extensive experience waiting on others. Eragon noticed a thin line of red running along the underside of Jörmundur's right bracer, but Jörmundur showed no sign of pain.

Between them sat their leader, Nasuada, resplendent in a dress of green and yellow, which she had donned just moments before, exchanging the raiment of war for garb more suited to the practice of statecraft. She too had been marked during the fighting, as was evidenced by the linen bandage wrapped around her left hand. In a low voice that only Eragon and Jörmundur could hear, Nasuada said, "If we can but gain their support …"

"What will they want in return, though?" asked Jörmundur. "Our coffers are near empty, and our future uncertain."

Her lips barely moving, she said, "Perhaps they wish nothing more of us than a chance to strike back at Galbatorix." She paused. "But if not, we shall have to find means other than gold to persuade them to join our ranks."

"You could offer them barrels of cream," said Eragon, which elicited a chortle from Jörmundur and a soft laugh from Nasuada.

Their murmured conversation came to an end as three trumpets sounded outside the main hall. Then a flaxen haired page dressed in a tunic stitched with the Varden's standard—a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing downward on a purple field—marched through the open doorway at the far end of the hall, struck the floor with his ceremonial staff, and, in a thin, warbling voice, announced, "His Most Exalted Royal Highness, Grimrr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats, Lord of the Lonely Places, Ruler of the Night Reaches, and He Who Walks Alone."

_A strange title, that: He Who Walks Alone_, Eragon observed to Saphira.

_But well deserved, I would guess_, she replied, and he could sense her amusement, even though he could not see her where she lay coiled in the castle keep.

The page stepped aside, and through the doorway strode Grimrr Halfpaw in the shape of a human, trailed by four other werecats, who padded close behind him on large, shaggy paws. The four resembled Solembum, the one other werecat Eragon had seen in the guise of an animal: heavy-shouldered and long-limbed, with short, dark ruffs upon their necks and withers; tasseled ears; and black-tipped tails, which they waved gracefully from side to side.

Grimrr Halfpaw, however, looked unlike any person or creature Eragon had ever seen. At roughly four feet tall, he was the same height as a dwarf, but no one could have mistaken him for a dwarf, or even for a human. He had a small pointed chin, wide cheekbones, and, underneath upswept brows, slanted green eyes fringed with wing like eyelashes. His ragged black hair hung low over his forehead, while on the sides and back it fell to his shoulders, where it lay smooth and lustrous, much like the manes of his companions. His age was impossible for Eragon to guess.

The only clothes Grimrr wore were a rough leather vest and a rabbit-skin loincloth. The skulls of a dozen or so animals—birds, mice, and other small game—were tied to the front of the vest, and they rattled against one another as he moved. A sheathed dagger protruded at an angle from under the belt of his loincloth. Numerous scars, thin and white, marked his nut-brown skin, like scratches on a wellused table. And, as his name indicated, he was missing two fingers on his left hand; they looked to have been bitten off.

Despite the delicacy of his features, there was no doubt that Grimrr was male, given the hard, sinewy muscles of his arms and chest, the narrowness of his hips, and the coiled power of his stride as he sauntered down the length of the hall toward Nasuada.

None of the werecats seemed to notice the people lined up on either side of their path watching them until Grimrr came level with the herbalist Angela, who stood next to Roran, knitting a striped tube sock with six needles. Grimrr's eyes narrowed as he beheld the herbalist, and his hair rippled and spiked, as did that of his four guards. His lips drew back to reveal a pair of curved white fangs, and to Eragon's astonishment, he uttered a short, loud hiss.

Angela looked up from the sock, her expression languid and insolent. _"Cheep cheep," _she said.

For a moment, Eragon thought the werecat was going to attack her. A dark flush mottled Grimrr's neck and face, his nostrils flared, and he snarled silently at her. The other werecats settled into low crouches, ready to pounce, their ears pressed flat against their heads.

Throughout the hall, Eragon heard the slither of blades being partially drawn from their scabbards. Grimrr hissed once more, then turned away from the herbalist and continued walking. As the last werecat in line passed Angela, he lifted a paw and took a surreptitious swipe at the strand of yarn that drooped from Angela's needles, just like a playful house cat might.

Saphira's bewilderment was equal to Eragon's own. _Cheep cheep? _she asked. He shrugged, forgetting that she could not see him. _Who_ _knows why Angela does or says anything?_

At last Grimrr arrived before Nasuada. He inclined his head ever so slightly, displaying with his bearing the supreme confidence, even arrogance, that was the sole province of cats, dragons, and certain highborn women.

"Lady Nasuada," he said. His voice was surprisingly deep, more akin to the low, coughing roar of a wildcat than the high-pitched tones of the boy he resembled.

Nasuada inclined her head in turn. "King Halfpaw. You are most welcome to the Varden, you and all your race. I must apologize for the absence of our ally, King Orrin of Surda; he could not be here to greet you, as he wished, for he and his horsemen are even now busy defending our westward flank from a contingent of Galbatorix's troops."

"Of course, Lady Nasuada," said Grimrr. His sharp teeth flashed as he spoke. "You must never turn your back on your enemies."

"Even so … And to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit, Your Highness? Werecats have always been noted for their secrecy and their solitude, and for remaining apart from the conflicts of the age, especially since the fall of the Riders. One might even say that your kind has become more myth than fact over the past century. Why, then, do you now choose to reveal yourselves?"

Grimrr lifted his right arm and pointed at Eragon with a crooked finger topped by a clawlike nail.

"Because of him," growled the werecat. "One does not attack another hunter until he has shown his weakness, and Galbatorix has shown his: he will not kill Eragon Shadeslayer or Saphira Bjartskular. Long have we waited for this opportunity, and seize it we will. Galbatorix will learn to fear and hate us, and at the last, he will realize the extent of his mistake and know that we were the ones responsible for his undoing. And how sweet that revenge will taste, as sweet as the marrow of a tender young boar. "Time has come, human, for every race, even werecats, to stand together and prove to Galbatorix that he has not broken our will to fight. We would join your army, Lady Nasuada, as free allies, and help you achieve this."

What Nasuada was thinking, Eragon could not tell, but he and Saphira were impressed by the werecat's speech.

After a brief pause, Nasuada said, "Your words fall most pleasantly upon my ears, Your Highness. But before I can accept your offer, there are answers I must have of you, if you are willing."

With an air of unshakable indifference, Grimrr waved a hand. "I am."

"Your race has been _so _secretive and _so _elusive, I must confess, I had not heard tell of Your Highness until this very day. As a point of fact, I did not even know that your race

_had _a ruler."

"I am not a king like your kings," said Grimrr. "Werecats prefer to walk alone, but even we must choose a leader when to war we go."

"I see. Do you speak for your whole race, then, or only for those who travel with you?"

Grimrr's chest swelled, and his expression became, if possible, even more self-satisfied. "I speak for all of my kind, Lady Nasuada," he purred. "Every able-bodied werecat in Alagaësia, save those who are nursing, has come here to fight. There are few of us, but none can equal our ferocity in battle. And I can also command the one-shapes, although I cannot speak for them, for they are as dumb as other animals. Still, they will do what we ask of them."

"One-shapes?" Nasuada inquired.

"Those you know as cats. Those who cannot change their skins, as we do."

"And you command their loyalty?"

"Aye. They admire us … as is only natural."

_If what he says is true_, Eragon commented to Saphira, _the werecats could prove to be incredibly valuable_.

Then Nasuada said, "And what is it you desire of us in exchange for your assistance, King Halfpaw?" She glanced at Eragon and smiled, then added, "We can offer you as much cream as you want, but beyond that, our resourcesare limited. If your warriors expect to be paid for their troubles, I fear they will be sorely disappointed."

"Cream is for kittens, and gold holds no interest for us," said Grimrr. As he spoke, he lifted his right hand and inspected his nails with a heavy-lidded gaze. "Our terms are thus: Each of us will be given a dagger to fight with, if we do not already have one. Each of us shall have two suits of armor made to fit, one for when on two legs we stand, and one for when on four. We need no other equipment than that—no tents, no blankets, no plates, no spoons. Each of us will be promised a single duck, grouse, chicken, or similar bird per day, and every second day, a bowl of freshly chopped liver. Even if we do not choose to eat it, the food will be set aside for us. Also, should you win this war, then whoever becomes your next king or queen—and all who claim that title thereafter—will keep a padded cushion next to their throne, in a place of honor, for one of us to sit on, if we so wish."

"You bargain like a dwarven lawgiver," said Nasuada in a dry tone. She leaned over to Jörmundur, and Eragon heard her whisper, "Do we have enough liver to feed them all?"

"I think so," Jörmundur replied in an equally hushed voice. "But it depends on the size of the bowl."

Nasuada straightened in her seat. "Two sets of armor is one too many, King Halfpaw. Your warriors will have to decide whether they want to fight as cats or as humans and then abide by the decision. I cannot afford to outfit them for both."

If Grimrr had had a tail, Eragon was sure it would have twitched back and forth. As it was, the werecat merely shifted his position. "Very well, Lady Nasuada."

"There is one more thing. Galbatorix has spies and killers hidden everywhere. Therefore, as a condition of joining the Varden, you must consent to allow one of our spellcasters to examine your memories, so we may assure ourselves that Galbatorix has no claim on you."

Grimrr sniffed. "You would be foolish not to. If anyone is brave enough to read our thoughts, let them. But not her"— and he twisted to point at Angela. "Never her."

Nasuada hesitated, and Eragon could see that she wanted to ask why but restrained herself. "So be it. I will send for magicians at once, that we may settle this matter without delay. Depending on what they find—and it will be nothing untoward, I'm sure—I am honored to form an alliance between you and the Varden, King Halfpaw."

At her words, all of the humans in the hall broke out cheering and began to clap, including Angela. Even the elves appeared pleased.

The werecats, however, did not react, except to tilt their ears backward in annoyance at the noise.


	5. RIGHT AND WRONG

**Back to Arya's POV. This part is not part of Inheritance. I made it up**

Ch 5: **RIGHT AND WRONG**

The stench of blood filled Arya's nostrils as she and five of Blodhgarm's spellcasters worked to heal the Varden's soldiers. The healing tent was packed with men who were injured in the battle. It was noon and the sun shined right through almost transparent roof. People groaned and complained. They were thirsty and hungry, but the Varden was in such disarray at that moment that no one had the time or the patience to deal with it.

She passed soldiers who didn't seem to have life threatening injuries and tended to those with the more serious ones. Arya then came across a man who had several broken ribs and a long, bloody gash across his forehead. The bone and tissue was clearly visible. As she knelt down beside him and conjured up a spell to use, the man croaked in a low, husky voice.

"Leave me be," he said. "Leave me. I do not wish to be healed by a creature like you. Do not use your foul magic on me. You and your race are responsible for everyone who is dying or has already died. If it weren't for the elves, Galbatorix would never have risen to power."

Rage filled Arya.

"Imbecile!" she said. "The elves had never asked Galbatorix to kill the dragons and their Riders or take the throne. Galbatorix was human himself and it was his vanity and his madness that is causing all of Alagaësia to suffer. You would not even be able to try and stop him now if it were not for the elves. Of course, the likes of you would never understand that! If you do not wish to be healed then I suppose I will not even try and waste my strength."

She stormed out, away from the all moaning and griping, leaving the other elves to finish up with the rest of the soldiers.

Outside, many of the Varden's men were laboring to clear away the rubble and dead bodies outside the castle. She could see Eragon who was sitting on the ground next to Saphira some distance away. They were engaged in a conversation with Angela and Roran.

Arya continued on to her tent on the eastern side of the camp. She had retrieved the Dauthdaert from Wyrden on the way there. When she reached her destination, she wondered where she should hide the magical lance.

_We might need it at a moment's notice _she thought. _ If Murtagh and Thorn or maybe even Galbatorix and Shruikan were to show up, the Dauthdaert might be our only chance of being able to defeat them. _

She settled on burying it about three feet into the ground inside her tent and arming it with spells and traps to prevent anyone from trying to steal it.

Then, she stripped herself of her armor and laid it on the cot.

Arya strode over to the small, portable desk which was a gift to her from her father, King Evandar, who was killed by either Galbatorix or one of the Forsworn at the Battle of Ilirea. The desk was an object of curiosity for many humans. It was capable of folding up until it was small enough to carry in a saddlebag. On the desk, was a pitcher of water, a bowl, and two fairths: one of the former Evandar Könungr and the other of Fäolin, both of them victims of Galbatorix's wrath.

Arya stared at the two fairths with a feeling of helplessness and woe. She had sworn to herself that no matter what it takes, she would avenge their deaths.

_No matter what it takes, Galbatorix will die. Even if it costs me my own life, he will die._

She picked up the pitcher and the bowl, poured water into it, and uttered the spell to scry her mother, Queen Islanzadi. 

The water in the bowl shimmered and Arya was looking at the inside of a tent. The Queen was huddled over a map on her desk, lines creasing her face as she examined it. She looked stressed and worried. Arya gazed at her. She remembered back about ninety years ago, before King Evandar had died, her mother had always been…._Happy _she thought. She remembered when she was a child, playing with her parents in the gardens of Tialdari Hall.

_Everything was just so perfect. _It hurt Arya to see her mother like this even though she still harbored some anger against the Queen. It made her want to make sure Galbatorix got exactly what he deserved.

Arya made the proper adjustments to the spell for her to be able to talk to the Queen. After a moment, Queen Islanzadi looked up from her desk at a mirror hanging on the wall. An expression of relief crossed over her face.

"My daughter," she said. She rose from the desk and strode over to the mirror. Her demeanor was elegant and powerful, much like Arya herself. The two shared many similarities but Islanzadi was the more grand and majestic being.

"How did the Varden fare in the battle?" she asked. "I hope there were not many casualties."

"Not many," replied Arya. "But a lot injured. We were able to subdue the city fairly quickly."

"I see. Any other news?"

"Yes. After the battle, we were informed of a large group of werecats seeking an audience with Nasuada. It turned out that they wanted to join the Varden."

"Werecats?" Islanzadi appeared astonished. "But they have not shown themselves in years! Why did they decide to show up now?

"Their king, Grimmr Halfpaw says that their reason was Eragon and Saphira. Galbatorix has shown his weakness. It is that he will never try to kill them; not without offering them the chance to join his cause. He says that they have long awaited for an opportunity such as this one."

"And did Nasuada accept?"

"Yes, she did."

"Ah," said Islanzadi. "That is very pleasing to hear. Werecats can easily act as spies. They would be valuable allies.

A silence came between them.

"Arya," the Queen said slowly. "How do you fare? It has been a while since I've last seen you."

Arya did not respond.

_Well it hasn't been seventy years _Arya thought as she remembered the time when her mother had banished her from her presence for accepting the Yawë and acting as an ambassador for the elves.

"I realize that you still haven't forgiven me for my actions," Islanzadi continued. "Arya, I want you to understand my reasons. I have endured many losses in my life. Many close friends of mine had perished at the hands of Galbatorix and the Forsworn. One of which, as you know, was your father."

Islanzadi stumbled and then continued. "That time was almost unbearable for me, Arya. It hurt me as much as it hurt you and the rest of Du Weldenvarden. I was left with the choice to rule the elves which I accepted and the sorrow of losing Evandar. And of course, I had the only thing that could comfort me. You. My daughter. I watched you grow into a strong, beautiful elf. I was proud of you in more ways than you can imagine. And I hoped that nothing would ever separate you from me. Then after you accepted the yawë and decided to become the courier for Saphira's egg, I became afraid. I was afraid I would lose you. Like I lost your father. The thought was too much for me and I tried many ways to keep you from going. Even though Glenwing and Faolin volunteered to accompany you, that is hardly enough protection from the likes of Shades, as we found out, and Galbatorix. This fear led to my anger when you insisted on venturing out into the Empire and out of that anger, I did not allow you to come into my presence. I know I must have hurt you deeply and for that I apologize. But do not be angry with me for that. I am your mother and I have responsibilities over you. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I was not. But it was only because I cared for your well-being."

"You were wrong mother," Arya shot back. "You were wrong banishing me. You should have realized that as your daughter, I also have a responsibility to the elves and well as the rest of Alagaësia. I did what no elf had ever done in years: to go out into the Empire. And that was not just to quench some thirst for adventure. It was because I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help overthrow Galbatorix because it was he who took my father away from me. I was not going to stand around and watch Galbatorix have everyone kneeling down to him. Why? Because all he did was spread hate and sorrow. I accepted the yawë because I felt that I had a part to play in this world for the better good of everyone in it. And I also felt that I was responsible enough and capable of the job. I wanted to make a change and you should have been able to see that."

"What about Durza, Arya?" Islanzadi countered. "What was I supposed to do if you had been killed in Gilead? How was I supposed to cope? I would have lost the most important thing to me."

"You thought I was dead anyway."

"What was I supposed to think?"

Arya fell silent. _You did not have to give up hope _she thought. She felt frustrated. She did not want to think about those dark days in Gilead where she was almost driven to the point of insanity. Her mother was right in a way. But Arya refused to give in. _I still have a point._

"My torture in Gilead was a test my own fortitude and strength. It was a consequence of my choice and I dealt with it," she said in a low voice.

"The only reason you are alive now is because of Eragon and Saphira. What if they did not come to rescue you or could not get there in time?"

"Then I would have died serving the cause that I supported for the seventy years that I was not allowed in your presence!" Arya severed the connection and the image of her mother faded until she was staring at her own reflection in the bowl.


	6. MEMORIES OF THE DEAD

**Again, this is the same as the Memories from the Dead chapter in the book. This chapter and the next will be from the book.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own this. This belongs to Christopher Paolini.**

Ch 6: **MEMORIES OF THE DEAD**

_Galbatorix is mad and therefore unpredictable, but he also has gaps in his reasoning that an ordinary person would not. If you can find those, Eragon, then perhaps you and Saphira can defeat him." _

_Brom lowered his pipe, his face grave. "I hope you do. My greatest desire, Eragon, is that you and Saphira will live long and fruitful lives, free from fear of Galbatorix and the Empire. I wish that I could protect you from all of the dangers that threaten you, but alas, that is not within my ability. All I can do is give you my advice and teach you what I can __now __while I am still here.… My son. Whatever happens to you, know that I love you, and so did your mother. May the stars watch over you, Eragon Bromsson."_

Eragon opened his eyes as the memory faded. Above him, the ceiling of the tent sagged inward, as loose as an empty waterskin, after the battering it had received during the now-departed storm. A drop of water fell from the belly of a fold, struck his right thigh, and soaked through his leggings, chilling the skin beneath. He knew he would have to go tighten up the tent's support ropes, but he was reluctant to move from the cot.

_And Brom never said anything to you about Murtagh? He never told you that Murtagh and I were half brothers?_

Saphira, who was curled up outside the tent, said_, __Asking again won't change my answer__._

_Why wouldn't he, though? Why didn't he? He must have known about Murtagh. He couldn't __not __have__._

Saphira's response was slow to come_. __Brom's reasons were ever his own, but if I had to guess, I imagine he thought it more important to tell you how he cared for you, and to give you what advice he could, than to spend his time talking about Murtagh__._

_He could have warned me, though! Just a few words would have sufficed__._

_I cannot say for certain what drove him, Eragon. You have to accept that there are some questions you will never be able to answer about Brom. Trust in his love for you, and do not allow such concerns to disturb you__._

Eragon stared down his chest at his thumbs. He placed them side by side, to better compare them. His left thumb had more wrinkles on its second joint than did his right, while his right had a small, ragged scar that he could not remember getting, although it must have happened since the Agaetí Blödhren, the Blood-oath Celebration.

_Thank you__, _he said to Saphira. Through her, he had watched and listened to Brom's message three times since the fall of Feinster, and each time he had noticed some detail of Brom's speech or movement that had previously escaped him. The experience comforted and satisfied him, for it fulfilled a desire that had plagued him his entire life: to know the name of his father and to know that his father cared for him.

Saphira acknowledged his thanks with a warm glow of affection.

Though Eragon had eaten and then rested for perhaps an hour, his weariness had not entirely abated. Nor had he expected it to. He knew from experience that it could take weeks to fully recover from the debilitating effects of a long, drawn-out battle. As the Varden approached Urû'baen, he and everyone else in Nasuada's army would have less and less time to recover before each new confrontation. The war would wear them down until they were bloody, battered, and barely able to fight, at which point they would still have to face Galbatorix, who would have been waiting for them in ease and comfort.

He tried not to think about it too much.

Another drop of water struck his leg, cold and hard. Irritated, he swung his legs off the edge of the cot and sat upright, then went over to the bare patch of dirt in one corner and knelt next to it.

"Deloi sharjalví!" he said, as well as several other phrases in the ancient language that were necessary to disarm the traps he had set the previous day.

The dirt began to seethe like water coming to a boil, and rising out of the churning fountain of rocks, insects, and worms, there emerged an ironbound chest a foot and a half in length. Reaching out, Eragon took hold of the chest and released his spell. The ground grew calm once more.

He set the chest on the now-solid dirt. "Ládrin," he whispered, and waved his hand past the lock with no keyhole that secured the hasp. It popped open with a click.

A faint golden glow filled the tent as he lifted the lid of the chest.

Nestled securely within the velvet-lined interior lay Glaedr's Eldunarí, the dragon's heart of hearts. The large, jewel-like stone glittered darkly, like a dying ember. Eragon cupped the Eldunarí between his hands, the irregular, sharp-edged facets warm against his palms, and stared into its pulsing depths. A galaxy of tiny stars swirled within the center of the stone, although their movement had slowed and there seemed to be far fewer than when Eragon had first beheld the stone in Ellesméra, when Glaedr had discharged it from his body and into Eragon and Saphira's care.

As always, the sight fascinated Eragon; he could have sat watching the ever-changing pattern for days.

_We should try again__, _said Saphira, and he agreed.

Together they reached out with their minds toward the distant lights, toward the sea of stars that represented Glaedr's consciousness. Through cold and darkness they sailed, then heat and despair and indifference so vast and so great, it sapped their will to do anything other than to stop and weep.

_Glaedr … Elda__, _they cried over and over, but there was no answer, no shifting of the indifference.

At last they withdrew, unable to withstand the crushing weight of Glaedr's misery any longer.

As he returned to himself, Eragon became aware of someone knocking on the front pole of his tent, and then he heard Arya say, "Eragon? May I enter?"

He sniffed and blinked to clear his eyes. "Of course."

The dim gray light from the cloudy sky fell upon him as Arya pushed aside the entrance flap. He felt a sudden pang as his eyes met hers—green, slanted, and unreadable— and an ache of longing filled him.

"Has there been any change?" she asked, and came to kneel by him. Instead of armor, she was wearing the same black leather shirt, trousers, and thin-soled boots as when he had rescued her in Gil'ead. Her hair was damp from washing and hung down her back in long, heavy ropes. The scent of crushed pine needles attended her, as it so often did, and it occurred to Eragon to wonder whether she used a spell to create the aroma or if that was how she smelled naturally. He would have liked to ask her, but he did not dare.

In answer to her question, he shook his head.

"May I?" She indicated Glaedr's heart of hearts.

He moved out of the way. "Please." Arya placed her hands on either side of the Eldunarí and then closed her eyes. While she sat, he took the opportunity to study her with an openness and intensity that would have been offensive otherwise. In every aspect, she seemed the epitome of beauty, even though he knew that another might say her nose was too long, or her face too angled, or her ears too pointed, or her arms too muscled.

With a sharp intake of breath, Arya jerked her hands away from the heart of hearts, as if it had burned her. Then she bowed her head, and Eragon saw her chin quiver ever so faintly. "He is the most unhappy creature I have ever met. … I would we could help him. I do not think he will be able to find his way out of the darkness on his own."

"Do you think …" Eragon hesitated, not wanting to give voice to his suspicion, then continued: "Do you think he will go mad?"

"He may have already. If not, then he dances on the very cusp of insanity."

Sorrow came over Eragon as they both gazed at the golden stone.

When at last he was able to bring himself to speak again, he asked, "Where is the Dauthdaert?"

"Hidden within my tent even as you have hidden Glaedr's Eldunarí. I can bring it here, if you want, or I can continue to safeguard it until you need it."

"Keep it. I can't carry it around with me, or Galbatorix may learn of its existence. Besides, it would be foolish to store so many treasures in one place."

She nodded.

The ache inside of Eragon intensified. "Arya, I—" He stopped as Saphira saw one of the blacksmith Horst's sons—Albriech, he thought, although it was difficult to tell him from his brother, Baldor, because of the distortions in Saphira's vision—running toward the tent. The interruption relieved Eragon, as he had not known what he was going to say.

"Someone's coming," he announced, and closed the lid of the chest.

Loud, wet footsteps sounded in the mud outside. Then Albriech, for it was Albriech, shouted, "Eragon! Eragon!"

"What!"

"Mother's birth pains have just begun! Father sent me to tell you and to ask if you will wait with him, in case anything goes wrong and your skill with magic is needed. Please, if you can—"

Whatever else he said was lost to Eragon as he rushed to lock and bury the chest. Then he cast his cloak over his shoulders and was fumbling with the clasp when Arya touched him on the arm and said, "May I accompany you? I have some experience with this. If your people will let me, I can make the birth easier for her."

Eragon did not even pause to consider his decision. He motioned toward the entrance of the tent. "After you."


	7. THE PRICE OF POWER

Same as the book again guys…I put these chapters in my story because I think it's important from the POV of the character that Paolini wrote it in. Maybe when Nasuada gets captured by Galbatorix, I'll write a bit from Murtagh's POV. And of course from Saphira's POV later on in the story where she will be having a conversation with Arya. (wink wink). Also Roran's parts in the story will not be included because I really think that his parts are boring. (just my opinion). Please review! Thanks to Restrained Freedom, IronMike Tyson, and eragon0123 for the reviews and advice!

Ch 7:** THE PRICE OF POWER**

There now, Ma'am. You won't be needing these anymore. And good riddance, I say."

With a soft rustle, the last strip of linen slid off Nasuada's forearms as her handmaid, Farica, removed the wrappings. Nasuada had worn bandages such as those since the day she and the warlord Fadawar had tested their courage against one another in the Trial of the Long Knives.

Nasuada stood staring at a long, ragged tapestry dotted with holes while Farica attended to her. Then she steeled herself and slowly lowered her gaze. Since winning the Trial of the Long Knives, she had refused to look at her wounds; they had appeared so horrendous when fresh, she could not bear to see them again until they were nearly healed.

The scars were asymmetrical: six lay across the belly of her left forearm, three on her right. Each of the scars was three to four inches long and straight as could be, save the bottom one on the right, where her self-control had faltered and the knife had swerved, carving a jagged line nearly twice the length of the others. The skin around the scars was pink and puckered, while the scars themselves wer only a little bit lighter than the rest of her body, for which she was grateful. She had feared that they might end up white and silvery, which would have made them far more noticeable. The scars rose above the surface of her arm about a quarter of an inch, forming hard ridges of flesh that looked exactly as if smooth steel rods had been inserted underneath her skin.

Nasuada regarded the marks with ambivalence. Her father had taught her about the customs of their people as she was growing up, but she had spent her whole life among the Varden and the dwarves. The only rituals of the wandering tribes that she observed, and then only irregularly, were associated with their religion. She had never aspired to master the Drum Dance, nor participate in the arduous Calling of Names, nor—and this most particularly—best anyone in the Trial of the Long Knives. And yet now here she was, still young and still beautiful, and already bearing these nine large scars upon her forearms. She could order one of the magicians of the Varden to remove them, of course, but then she would forfeit her victory in the Trial of the Long Knives, and the wandering tribes would renounce her as their liegelord.

While she regretted that her arms were no longer smooth and round and would no longer attract the admiring glances of men, she was also proud of the scars. They were a testament to her courage and a visible sign of her devotion to the Varden. Anyone who looked at her would know the quality of her character, and she decided that meant more to her than appearance.

"What do you think?" she asked, and held out her arms toward King Orrin, who stood framed in the open window of the study, looking down at the city.

Orrin turned and frowned, his eyes dark beneath his furrowed brow. He had traded his armor of earlier for a thick red tunic and a robe trimmed with white ermine. "I find it unpleasant to look at," he said, and returned his attention to the city. "Cover yourself; it is inappropriate for polite society."

Nasuada studied her arms for a moment longer. "No, I don't think I will." She tugged on the lace cuffs of her half sleeves to straighten them, then dismissed Farica. She crossed the sumptuous dwarf-woven rug in the center of the room to join Orrin in inspecting the battle-torn city, where she was pleased to see that all but two of the fires along the western wall had been extinguished. Then she shifted her gaze to the king.

In the short while since the Varden and the Surdans had launched their attack against the Empire, Nasuada had watched Orrin grow ever more serious, his original enthusiasm and eccentricities vanishing beneath a grim exterior. At first she had welcomed the change, for she had felt he was becoming more mature, but as the war dragged on, she began to miss his eager discussions of natural philosophy, as well as his other quirks. In retrospect, she realized these had often brightened her day, even if she had sometimes found them aggravating. Moreover, the change had made him more dangerous as a rival; in his current mood, she could quite easily imagine him attempting to displace her as leader of the Varden.

_Could I be happy if I married him? _she wondered. Orrin was not unpleasant to look at. His nose was high and thin, but his jaw was strong and his mouth was finely carved and expressive. Years of martial training had given him a pleasing build. That he was intelligent was without doubt, and for the most part his personality was agreeable. However, if he had not been the king of Surda, and if he had not posed such a great threat to her position and to the Varden's independence, she knew that she would never have considered a match with him. _Would he make a good_ _father?_

Orrin put his hands on the narrow stone sill and leaned against it. Without looking at her, he said, "You have to break your pact with the Urgals."

His statement took her aback. "And why is that?"

"Because they are hurting us. Men who would otherwise join us now curse us for allying ourselves with monsters and refuse to lay down their weapons when we arrive at their homes. Galbatorix's resistance seems just and reasonable to them because of our concord with the Urgals. The common man does not understand why we joined with them. He does not know that Galbatorix used the Urgals himself, nor that Galbatorix tricked them into attacking Tronjheim under the command of a Shade. These are subtleties that you cannot explain to a frightened farmer. All he can comprehend is that the creatures he has feared and hated his whole life are marching toward his home, led by a huge, snarling dragon and a Rider who appears more elf than human."

"We need the Urgals' support," said Nasuada. "We have too few warriors as it is."

"We do not need them as badly as all that. You already know what I say is the truth; why else did you prevent the Urgals from participating in the attack on Belatona? Why else have you ordered them not to enter the city? Keeping them away from the battlefield isn't enough, Nasuada. Word of them still spreads throughout the land. The only thing you can do to improve the situation is to end this ill-fated scheme before it causes us more harm."

"I cannot."

Orrin spun toward her, anger distorting his face. "Men are _dying _because you chose to accept Garzhvog's help. My men, your men, those in the Empire … dead and _buried_. This alliance isn't worth their sacrifice, and for the life of me, I cannot fathom why you continue to defend it."

She could not hold his gaze; it reminded her too strongly of the guilt and recrimination that so often afflicted her when she was trying to fall asleep. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the smoke rising from a tower by the edge of the city. Speaking slowly, she said, "I defend it because I hope that preserving our union with the Urgals will save more lives than it will cost.… If we should defeat Galbatorix—"

Orrin uttered an exclamation of disbelief.

"It is by no means certain," she said, "I know. But we must plan for the possibility. If we should defeat him, then it will fall to us to help our race recover from this conflict and build a strong new country out of the ashes of the Empire. And part of that process will be ensuring that, after a hundred years of strife, we finally have peace. I will not overthrow Galbatorix only to have the Urgals attack us when we are at our weakest."

"They might anyway. They always have before."

"Well, what else can we do?" she said, annoyed. "We have to try to tame them. The closer we bind them to our cause, the less likely they will be to turn on us."

"I'll tell you what to do," he growled. "Banish them. Break your pact with Nar Garzhvog and send him and his rams away. If we win this war, then we can negotiate a new treaty with them, and we will be in a position to dictate whatever terms we want. Or better yet, send Eragon and Saphira into the Spine with a battalion of men to wipe them out once and for all, as the Riders should have done centuries ago."

Nasuada looked at him with disbelief. "If I ended our pact with the Urgals, they would likely be so angry, they would attack us forthwith, and we cannot fight both them and the Empire at the same time. To invite that upon ourselves would be the height of folly. If, in their wisdom, the elves, the dragons, and the Riders all decided to tolerate the existence of the Urgals—even though they could have destroyed them easily enough—then we ought to follow their example. They knew it would be wrong to kill all the Urgals, and so should you."

"Their wisdom—Bah! As if their _wisdom _has done them any good! Fine, leave some of the Urgals alive, but kill enough of them that they won't dare leave their haunts for a hundred years or more!"

The obvious pain in his voice and in the strained lines of his face puzzled Nasuada. She examined him with greater intensity, trying to determine the reason for his vehemence. After a few moments, an explanation presented itself that, upon reflection, seemed self-evident.

"Whom did you lose?" she asked.

Orrin balled up a fist and slowly, haltingly, brought it down upon the windowsill, as if he wanted to pound it with all his strength but did not dare. He thumped the sill twice more, then said, "A friend I grew up with in Borromeo Castle. I don't think you ever met him. He was one of the lieutenants in my cavalry."

"How did he die?"

"As you might expect. We had just arrived at the stables by the west gate and were securing them for our own use when one of the grooms ran out of a stall and stabbed him right through with a pitchfork. When we cornered the groom, he kept screaming stuff and nonsense about the Urgals and how he would never surrender.… It wouldn't have done the fool any good even if he had. I struck him down with my own hand."

"I'm sorry," said Nasuada.

The gems in Orrin's crown glittered as he nodded in acknowledgment.

"As painful as it is, you cannot allow your grief to dictate your decisions.… It isn't easy, I know—well I know it!—but you must be stronger than yourself, for the good of your people."

"Be stronger than myself," he said in a sour, mocking voice.

"Yes. More is asked of us than of most people; therefore we must strive to be better than most if we are to prove ourselves worthy of that responsibility.… The Urgals killed my father, remember, but that did not prevent me from forging an alliance that could help the Varden. I won't let anything stop me from doing what is best for them and for our army as a whole, no matter how painful it might be." She lifted her arms, showing him the scars again.

"That is your answer, then? You will not break off with the Urgals?"

"No."

Orrin accepted the news with an equanimity that unsettled her. Then he gripped the sill with both hands and returned to his study of the city. Adorning his fingers were four large rings, one of which bore the royal seal of Surda carved into the face of an amethyst: an antlered stag with sprigs of mistletoe wound between his feet standing over a harp and opposite an image of a tall, fortified tower.

"At least," said Nasuada, "we didn't encounter any soldiers who were enchanted not to feel pain."

"The laughing dead, you mean," Orrin muttered, using the term that she knew had become widespread throughout the Varden. "Aye, and not Murtagh nor Thorn either, which troubles me."

For a time, neither of them spoke. Then she said, "How went your experiment last night? Was it a success?"

"I was too tired to assay it. I went to sleep instead."

"Ah."

After a few more moments, they both, by tacit agreement, went to the desk pushed against one wall. Mountains of sheets, tablets, and scrolls covered the desk. Nasuada surveyed the daunting landscape and sighed. Only half an hour earlier, the desk had been empty, swept clean by her aides.

She concentrated upon the all-too-familiar topmost report, an estimate of the number of prisoners the Varden had taken during the siege of Belatona, with the names of persons of importance noted in red ink. She and Orrin had been discussing the figures when Farica had arrived to remove her bandages.

"I can't think of a way out of this tangle," she admitted.

"We could recruit guards from among the men here. Then we wouldn't have to leave quite so many of our own warriors behind."

She picked up the report. "Maybe, but the men we need would be difficult to find, and our spellcasters are already dangerously overworked.…"

"Has Du Vrangr Gata discovered a way to break an oath given in the ancient language?" When she answered in the negative, he asked, "Have they made any headway at all?"

"None that is practical. I even asked the elves, but they have had no more luck in all their long years than we have these past few days."

"If we don't solve this, and soon, it could cost us the war," said Orrin. "This one issue, right here."

She rubbed her temples. "I know." Before leaving the protection of the dwarves in Farthen Dûr and Tronjheim, she had tried to anticipate every challenge the Varden might face once they embarked on the offensive. The one they now confronted, however, had caught her completely by surprise.

The problem had first manifested itself in the aftermath of the Battle of the Burning Plains, when it had become apparent that all of the officers in Galbatorix's army, and most of the ordinary soldiers as well, had been forced to swear their loyalty to Galbatorix and the Empire in the ancient language. She and Orrin had quickly realized they could never trust those men, not so long as Galbatorix and the Empire still existed, and perhaps not even if they were destroyed. As a result, they could not allow the men who wanted to defect to join the Varden, for fear of how their oaths might compel them to behave.

Nasuada had not been overly concerned by the situation at the time. Prisoners were a reality of war, and she had already made provisions with King Orrin to have their captives marched back to Surda, where they would be put to work building roads, breaking rocks, digging canals, and doing other hard labor. It was not until the Varden seized the city of Feinster that she grasped the full size of the problem. Galbatorix's agents had extracted oaths of loyalty not only from the soldiers in Feinster but also from the nobles, from many of the officials who served them, and from a seemingly random collection of ordinary people throughout the city—a fair number of whom she suspected the Varden had failed to identify. Those they knew of, however, had to be kept under lock and key, lest they try to subvert the Varden. Finding people they could trust, then, and who wanted to work with the Varden had proved far more difficult than Nasuada had ever expected.

Because of all the people who needed to be contained, she had had no choice but to leave twice the number of warriors in Feinster that she had intended. And, with so many imprisoned, the city was effectively crippled, forcing her to divert much-needed supplies from the main body of the Varden to keep the city from starving. They could not maintain the situation for long, and it would only worsen now that they were also in possession of Belatona.

"A pity the dwarves haven't arrived yet," said Orrin. "We could use their help."

Nasuada agreed. There were only a few hundred dwarves with the Varden at the moment; the rest had returned to Farthen Dûr for the burial of their fallen king, Hrothgar, and to wait for their clan chiefs to choose Hrothgar's successor, a fact that she had cursed countless times since. She had tried to convince the dwarves to appoint a regent for the duration of the war, but they were as stubborn as stone and had insisted upon carrying out their age-old ceremonies, though doing so meant abandoning the Varden in the middle of their campaign. In any event, the dwarves had finally selected their new king— Hrothgar's nephew, Orik—and had set out from the distant Beor Mountains to rejoin the Varden. Even at that moment, they were marching across the vast plains just north of Surda, somewhere between Lake Tüdosten and the Jiet River.

Nasuada wondered if they would be fit to fight when they arrived. As a rule, dwarves were hardier than humans, but they had spent most of the past two months on foot, and that could wear down the endurance of even the strongest creatures. _They must be tired of seeing the same_ _landscape over and over again_, she thought.

"We have so many prisoners already. And once we take Dras-Leona …" She shook her head.

Appearing suddenly animated, Orrin said, "What if we bypass Dras-Leona entirely?" He shuffled through the slew of papers on the desk until he located a large, dwarf-drawn map of Alagaësia, which he draped over the scarps of administerial records. The tottering mounds underneath gave the land an unusual topography: peaks in the west of Du Weldenvarden; a bowl-like depression where the Beor Mountains lay; canyons and ravines throughout the Hadarac Desert; and rolling waves along the northernmost part of the Spine, born of the rows of scrolls below. "Look." With his middle finger, he traced a line from Belatona to the capital of the Empire, Urû'baen. "If we march straight there, we won't come anywhere near Dras-Leona. It would be difficult to traverse the whole stretch all at once, but we _could _do it."

Nasuada did not need to ponder his suggestion; she had already considered the possibility. "The risk would be too great. Galbatorix could still attack us with the soldiers he has stationed in Dras-Leona—which is no small number, if our spies are to be trusted—and then we'd end up fending off attacks from two directions at once. I know of no quicker way to lose a battle, or a war. No, we must capture Dras-Leona."

Orrin conceded the point with a slight dip of his head. "We need our men back from Aroughs, then. We need every warrior if we are to continue."

"I know. I intend to make sure that the siege is brought to an end before the week is out."

"Not by sending Eragon there, I hope."

"No, I have a different plan."

"Good. And in the meantime? What shall we do with these prisoners?"

"What we have done before: guards, fences, and padlocks. Maybe we can also bind the prisoners with spells to restrict their movement, so that we don't have to keep watch over them so closely. Other than that, I see no solution, except to slaughter the whole lot of them, and I would rather—" She tried to imagine what she would not do in order to defeat Galbatorix. "I would rather not resort to such … _drastic _measures."

"Aye." Orrin stooped over the map, hunching his shoulders like a vulture as he glared at the squiggles of faded ink that marked the triangle of Belatona, Dras-Leona, and Urû'baen.

And so he remained until Nasuada said, "Is there anything else we must attend to? Jörmundur is waiting for his orders, and the Council of Elders has requested an audience with me."

"I worry."

"What about?"

Orrin swept a hand over the map. "That this venture was ill conceived from the start.… That our forces, and those of our allies, are dangerously scattered, and that if Galbatorix should take it in his head to join in the fight himself, he could destroy us as easily as Saphira could a herd of goats. Our entire strategy depends upon contriving a meeting between Galbatorix, Eragon, Saphira, and as many spellcasters as we can muster. Only a small portion of those spellcasters are currently among our ranks, and we won't be able to gather the rest into a single place until we arrive at Urû'baen and meet with Queen Islanzadí and her army. Until that happens, we remain woefully vulnerable to attack. We are risking much on the assumption that Galbatorix's arrogance will hold him in check until our trap has sprung shut around him."

Nasuada shared his concerns. However, it was more important to shore up Orrin's confidence than to commiserate with him, for if his resolve weakened, it would interfere with his duties and undermine the morale of his men. "We are not entirely defenseless," she said. "Not anymore. We have the Dauthdaert now, and with it, I think we might actually be able to kill Galbatorix and Shruikan, should they emerge from within the confines of Urû'baen."

"Perhaps."

"Besides, it does no good to worry. We cannot hasten the dwarves here, nor speed our own progress toward Urû'baen, nor turn tail and flee. So I would not let our situation trouble you excessively. All we can do is strive to accept our fate with grace, whatever it might be. The alternative is to allow the thought of Galbatorix's possible actions to unsettle our minds, and _that _I won't do. I refuse to give him such power over me."


	8. RUDELY INTO THE LIGHT

Arya's POV…I got a little stuck while writing this…..but leave reviews and tell me how much it sucked!

Ch 8: **RUDELY INTO THE LIGHT …**

Elain let out another high and strident scream.

Her birth pains had started a long time back and here they still were, hours later, in Horst's tent.

Gertrude and the other women gazed at each other worriedly as Arya's temper rose. It was not going so well and yet they refused to let Arya use magic to help. Their stubbornness irritated her but she kept quiet. During her trips across the Empire carrying Saphira's eggs, she had heard many tales that humans told about the elves. They were afraid of magic, afraid of her. Even when she or Blodhgarm and his spellcasters were walking through the camp, people would stare and always avoid them.

Elain screamed again. Horst buried his face in his hands.

This time Arya could not hold back

"If you will allow me, I will be able to at least ease the pain she is feeling. There is no need to be afraid. I will not cause her or the child any harm." She tried to be as serene as possible.

The women looked at her with panic.

"Th- There is no need for that…I'm sure that it will be over in while," said Gertrude timidly.

"Please Gertrude," piped Katrina. "Just let her cast one spell. Arya said she means no harm. Elain might as well die from the pain. She can save her and the child if you stop being so irrational."

Gertrude looked at Arya hesitantly. Sweat gleamed on her forehead.

"Well…I suppose," she said, then quickly added, "But don't use too much magic."

Arya nodded. She laid her bare arm on top of the sheet that covered Elain and started the incantation. The women watched her with nervous and anxious eyes. Only Katrina was able to hold a steady gaze. Arya was grateful to her for persuading Gertrude. As the spell took its effect Elain's groans lessened, but not by much.

"That will do," Gertrude mumbled hurriedly. "It is best we do not resort to magic anymore."

Arya was fully frustrated now. She was tired of people thinking that her intentions were meant for the worse. She could even hear the men outside muttering things about her.

"She's an elf, not a human," she heard someone say. "She ought to stick with her own kind, she should, and not go meddling where she's not wanted. Who knows what it is she really wants, eh?"

This and more she heard. _What I really want….what I really want.._

What she really wanted was to make sure that the child would not die. In Du Weldenvarden, children were the most treasured thing one could have. Arya could not allow a child to be hurt if it was within her power to save it.

"Katrina," Gertrude said. "Take these rags out to Isold and Nolla to boil. And bring back some fresh ones."

Katrina took the soiled rags and walked out of the tent. Elaine let out another shrill screech.

Arya regarded Elain's state. The baby's head was halfway out already, but refused to come out any farther.

"If only there was another way to ease the child out," said one of the other women softly.

Arya jumped up. The women started and stared at her with surprise. Katrina walked back in with a new set of rags and look at her.

"Are the elves that were sent to protect Eragon and Saphira out there?" she asked Katrina.

"Yes, I think I saw a few of them," she replied.

Arya stormed out of the tent, her hair flying all around her face. It was almost dark. The sun was approaching the horizon. She saw Saphira lying some distance away, her scales glistening a purplish color from the rays of orange sunlight bouncing off of her.

The men outside watched her advance towards Invidia, one of the elven spellcasters. Some observed at her with looks of disgust while others grinned and nudged their friends saying things like "pleasing to look at" and "too bad she's an elf." Arya cheeks flushed with annoyance as she approached the thin-faced elf woman.

Arya explained Elain's plight to her. Invidia shook her head and said, "I know not much about child birth, Drottningu. In Ellesmera, we simply use magic. That is not going to help here unless you can convince the women otherwise. I'm sorry. I too do not wish tragedy to befall the child or the mother."

Arya spun on her heels and hurried back towards the tent. From the corner of her eye, she saw Eragon spring up from the barrel he was sitting on and caught up with her. He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes and clothes were disheveled, though Arya knew that she looked no better. The battle that had been fought only a few hours back and now going through this ordeal was exhausting.

"How goes it?" Eragon asked her.

"Badly."

"Why is it taking so long? Can't you help her give birth any faster?"

Arya clenched her jaw. "I could," she responded. "I could have sung the child out of her womb in the first half hour, but Gertrude and the other women will only let me use the simplest of spells."

That's absurd!" Eragon exclaimed. "Why?"

"Because magic frightens them," Arya said bitterly. "And I frighten them."

"Then tell them you mean no harm. Tell them in the ancient language, and they'll have no choice but to believe you."

She shook her head. "It would only make matter worse. They would think I was trying to charm them against their will, and they would send me away."

"Surely Katrina-"

"She was the reason I was able to cast the spells I did."

Elain's scream pierced the air again.

Eragon asked, "Won't they at least let you ease her pain?"

"No more than I already have."

Eragon spun towards the tent. "Is that so?" he growled. He started forward.

Without a second thought, Arya grabbed his arm and held him in place. _He must not go in there._

"Don't," she said. "These are customs older than time itself. If you interfere, you will anger and embarrass Gertrude and turn many of the females from your village against you."

"I don't care about that."

"I know," she responded. _Of course he wouldn't care. _"But trust me: right now the wisest thing you can do is wait with the others." She released his arm to emphasize her point.

"I can't just stand by and let her suffer!"

"_Listen_ to me," said Arya, exasperated. "It's better if you stay. I will help Elain however I can, that I promise, but do not go in there. You will only cause strife and anger where none are needed….Please."

Elaine screamed again and Eragon threw up his hands in disgust. "Fine," he said. He leaned closer to her face. "But whatever happens, don't let her or the child die. I don't care what you have to do, but don't let them die."

Arya studied him and said softly, "I would never allow a child to come to harm." She then stepped past him and continued walking.

The women gave her looks of dread as she stepped back into the tent. Instead of going to Elain's side where she was before, Arya positioned herself on the far side of the tent opposite Horst. He gazed at her with an expression that seemed to flit from worried to frightened and then to something Arya was very familiar with. Respect.

Arya's eyes went from Horst back to Elain. Her screams now became weak moans. Arya stood there watching her, Gertrude, and the other women for several more hours. Her eyes began to droop from weariness until she finally gave in and stood there with her eyes closed.

Another hour or two passed. Arya heard the leathery flapping of bats outside the tent making high-pitched squeaks.

Then, Elain uttered a shriek that drowned out everything else. Arya's eyes shot open and she covered her ears. She saw Gertrude take the baby from the cot.

Everyone in the tent stared at it with their mouths hanging open. Arya stepped forward and saw the child. She was struck by what she saw. The baby had a cat lip.

Children born with a cat lip were rarely allowed to live. Arya's knew this well. She had seen it happen before. They were difficult to feed and would be ridiculed by their peers.

Arya thought fast as the women began to keen with their lamentations. _The only possible way to let the child live is to heal her. The only way to do that is by magic. They won't allow me to do it. Even if they did they would accuse me of some kind wrongdoing. The only person who could do it without arousing suspicion is Eragon. _

Arya tore back the flap of the tent and ran towards Eragon where he was sitting beside Albriech and Baldor.

"What's happened?" Baldor asked as she approached them.

Arya ignored him and said. "Eragon, come."

"What's happened?" Baldor repeated angrily and reached for Arya's shoulder. In a flash of seemingly instantaneous movement, she caught his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back, forcing him to stand hunched over, like a cripple. His face contorted with pain.

"If you want your baby sister to live, then stand aside and do not interfere!" She released him with a push, sending him sprawling into Albriech's arms, then whirled about and strode back toward Horst's tent.

"What _has _happened?" Eragon asked as he joined her.

Arya faced him and said, "The child is healthy, but she was born with a cat lip. You have to heal her, Eragon."

"Me? But I've never…Why not you? You know more about healing than I do."

"If I rework the child's appearance, people will say I have stolen her and replaced her with a changeling. Well I know the stories your kind tells about my race, Eragon—too well. I will do it if I must, but the child will suffer for it ever after. You are the only one who can save her from such a fate."

A look of panic crossed Eragon's face.

"You have to heal her," Arya stated. She regretted the tone in which she said that, though. It came out sounding too forceful. She couldn't help herself though. The elves valued their children highly as well as children of all races.

"Will you assist me if I need it?"

"Of course."

_As will I_, said Saphira. _Must you even ask?_

"Right," said Eragon, and gripped Brisingr's pommel. "I'll do it."

Arya felt some relief surge through her as she followed Eragon back into the tent. They were greeted by the smell of candle smoke and the keening women who tore at the clothes and hair. Horst stood in the corner arguing with Gertrude who was holding the baby wrapped in a bundle of cloth.

Eragon approached them. Horst clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Eragon!" he said. Horst had a voice deeper than any human Arya had ever known. "You heard?"

Eragon nodded in response.

Horst glanced at Gertrude and said, "Can you…can you do anything for her, do you think?"

"Maybe," said Eragon. "I can try."

Gertrude handed the infant over to Eragon as he reached out his arms. She then backed away. Arya saw her with a troubled expression on her face. _She's very cautious around magicians_ Arya noted to herself.

"Please," said Horst. "Is there any way you can…"

The women's keening hit a shrill note that made Arya's ears hurt. She noticed Eragon wince as well.

"I can't work here," he said and turned to leave.

Gertrude spoke up and said, "I'll come with you. One of us who knows how to care for a child needs to stay with her."

A flash of irritation crossed Eragon's face but agreed to her proposal.

Arya stood by his left side as Eragon left the tent with the baby squirming in his arms. Gertrude followed by his right with Saphira trailing behind them. The villagers outside stood and pointed at them but kept their distance.

A few moments later Arya saw the witch-child Elva. She was staring at Eragon with her violet eyes. She wore a black and purple dress with a long veil of lace that was folded back over her head, exposing the silvery, star-shaped mark, similar to a gedwëy ignasia, on her forehead. She did not say a word.

Her very presence was a warning to Eragon. Arya remembered how in Tronjheim, he had blessed Elva with a curse. The same might happen here if he made a mistake.

They strode past her and continued on to Eragon's tent. The sun had already halfway set and darkness was descending upon them.

Eragon pushed open the flaps of his tent and walked in with Gertrude following behind. Saphira plopped herself down on the ground right beside Arya. Arya chose to stay outside the tent. She did not want to even hint at any foul play that involved her. It would not be good for her if rumors did spread and would cause distrust among the Varden. She had to be careful about the situations she walked into. _Especially in a place where I'm not wanted _she thought remembering the man who said that just hours back. For some reason, what that man said clung to her, especially when he questioned her intentions be saying "Who knows what it is she really wants?" _What is it that I want? _she asked herself. The question seemed to have a deeper meaning to her.

From inside the tent, Eragon called, "Arya?"

"I am here," she responded. "And here I shall wait. If you have need of me, you have but to cast your thoughts in my direction and I shall come."

Some villagers who had followed them approached the tent but seemed to be taken aback when they caught sight of her and Saphira guarding the tent. Saphira sent out a plume of smoke into the air and the villagers turned and trotted back the way they came. It was quiet for a while. After a few minutes though, more of them came and this time, they formed a semicircle about fifty feet away from the tent keeping their distance from Arya.

A soft song soon broke the silence. It was coming from inside the tent. Arya recognized Eragon's voice as he sang to the child, she guessed. It was a simple, but soothing quality. _A lullaby_ she figured. For some unusual reason, it brought out a whirl of emotions from Arya: sadness, homesickness, and a longing for something she used to have in the past.

For the first time since her father had been killed, for the first time since leaving Du Weldenvarden, for the first time since being banished from her mother's presence, for the first time since losing Faolin and being tortured by Durza, she felt a sense of isolation.

She felt alone.


	9. A CRADLE SONG

**Again, same as the book. In a previous review, someone requested that I have Arya go with Eragon to Vroengard. The problem is if Arya goes it will take more time. Saphira will not be able to fly back and forth so fast and remember that she does not eat during the whole flight. She might not have been able to make had they taken another person as well. Also, having Arya go with Eragon, I feel will be too intimate, too soon (Just like in Brisingr when Arya went to find Eragon in the Empire.) And another reason is that while Eragon is gone, The Varden is left sort of unprotected. If Arya had also left and Murtagh and Thorn or maybe even Galbatorix attacked, just imagine the scenario. I know a lot of people want Arya and Eragon to get together but you'll just have to put up with me till the end :) I promise I'll try not to make it too disappointing. The reason I don't want to put it at the beginning is because then I'll have to get sort of out of character with Arya. Duty comes first with her. OK guys I'm done :)…Review please!**

**Disclaimer: I Do Not Own This. This Belongs To Christopher Paolini.**

Ch 9: **A CRADLE SONG**

The baby stirred in her sleep, as if in response to Eragon's singing and her clenched expression softened. Then Eragon intoned the first of the spells: a simple incantation that consisted of two short sentences, which he recited over and over again, like a prayer. And the small pink hollow where the two sides of the girl's divided lip met shimmered and crawled, as if a dormant creature were stirring beneath the surface.

What he was attempting was far from easy. The infant's bones, like those of every newborn child, were soft and cartilaginous, different from those of an adult and thus different from all of the bones he had mended during his time with the Varden. He had to be careful not to fill the gap in her mouth with the bone, flesh, and skin of an adult, or those areas would not grow properly along with the rest of her body. Also, when he repaired the gap in her upper palate and gums, he would have to move, straighten, and make symmetrical the roots of what would become her two front teeth, something he had never done before. And further complicating the process was the fact that he had never seen the girl without her deformity, so he was uncertain how her lip and mouth ought to appear. She looked like every other baby he had seen: round, pudgy, and lacking definition. He worried, then, that he might give her a face that appeared pleasant enough at the moment, but that would become strange and unattractive as the years passed.

So he proceeded cautiously, making only small change sat a time and pausing after each one to ponder the result. He started with the deepest layers of the girl's face, with the bones and cartilage, and slowly worked his way outward, singing all the while. At a certain point, Saphira began to hum along with him from where she lay outside, her deep voice making the air vibrate. The werelight brightened and dimmed in accordance with the volume of her humming, a phenomenon that Eragon found exceedingly curious. He resolved to ask Saphira about it later.

Word by word, spell by spell, hour by hour, the night wore on, though Eragon paid no attention to the time. When the girl cried from hunger, he fed her with a trickle of energy. He and Saphira tried to avoid touching her mind with theirs— not knowing how the contact might affect her immature consciousness—but they still brushed against it occasionally; her mind felt vague and indistinct to Eragon, a thrashing sea of unmoderated emotions that reduced everything else in the world to insignificance.

Beside him, Gertrude's needles continued to clack, the only interruption in the rhythm coming when the healer lost count of her stitches or had to tink back several knits or purls in order to correct a mistake.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the fissure in the girl's gums and palate fused into a seamless whole, the two sides of her cat lip pulled together—her skin flowing like liquid—and her upper lip gradually formed a pink bow free of flaws.

Eragon fiddled and tweaked and worried over the shape of her lip for the longest while, until at last Saphira said, _It is_ _done. Leave it_, and he was forced to admit that he could not improve the girl's appearance any more, only make it worse.

Then he let the cradle song fade to silence. His tongue felt thick and dry, his throat raw. He pushed himself off the cot and stood half crouched over it, too stiff to straighten up entirely.

In addition to the illumination from the werelight, a pale glow pervaded the tent, the same as when he had started. At first he was confused—surely the sun had already set! — but then he realized that the glow was coming from the east, not the west, and he understood. _No wonder I'm so_ _sore. I've been sitting here the whole night through!_

_And what about me? _said Saphira. _My bones ache as_ _much as yours_. Her admission surprised him; she rarely acknowledged her own discomfort, no matter how extreme. The fighting must have taken a greater toll on her than had first been apparent. As he reached that conclusion, and Saphira became aware of it, she withdrew from him slightly and said, _Tired or not, I can still crush however many_ _soldiers Galbatorix sends against us_.

_I know_.

Returning the knitting to her bag, Gertrude stood and hobbled over to the cot. "Never did I think to see such a thing," she said. "Least of all from you, Eragon Bromsson."She peered at him inquiringly. "Brom _was _your father, wasn't he?"

Eragon nodded, then croaked, "That he was."

"It seems fitting, somehow."

Eragon was not inclined to discuss the topic further, so he merely grunted and extinguished the werelight with a glance and a thought. Instantly, all went dark, save for the predawn glow. His eyes adjusted to the change faster than Gertrude's; she blinked and frowned and swung her head from side to side, as if unsure of where he stood.

The girl was warm and heavy in Eragon's arms as he picked her up. He was uncertain whether his weariness was due to the magic he had wrought or to the sheer length of time the task had taken him.

He gazed down at the girl and, feeling suddenly protective, murmured, "Sé ono waíse ilia." May you be happy. It was not a spell, not properly, but he hoped that maybe it could help her avoid some of the misery that afflicted so many people. Failing that, he hoped it would make her smile.

It did. A wide smile spread across her diminutive face, and with great enthusiasm, she said, "Gahh!"

Eragon smiled as well, then turned and strode outside.

As the entrance flaps fell away, he saw a small crowd gathered in a semicircle around the tent, some standing, some sitting, others squatting. Most he recognized from Carvahall, but Arya and the other elves were also there— somewhat apart from the rest—as well as several warriors of the Varden whose names he did not know. He spotted Elva lurking behind a nearby tent, her black lace veil lowered, hiding her face.

The group, Eragon realized, must have been waiting for hours, and he had not sensed anything of their presence. He had been safe enough with Saphira and the elves keeping watch, but that was no excuse for allowing himself to become so complacent.

_I have to do better_, he told himself.

At the forefront of the crowd stood Horst and his sons, looking worried. Horst's brow knotted as he gazed at the bundle in Eragon's arms, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no sound came forth.

Without pomp or ceremony, Eragon walked over to the smith and turned the girl so that he could see her face. For a moment, Horst did not move; then his eyes began to glisten and his expression changed to one of joy and relief so profound, it could have been mistaken for grief.

As he gave the girl to Horst, Eragon said, "My hands are too bloody for this kind of work, but I'm glad I was able to help."

Horst touched the girl's upper lip with the tip of his middle finger, then shook his head. "I can't believe it.… I can't believe it." He looked at Eragon. "Elain and I are forevermore in your debt. If—"

"There is no debt," Eragon said gently. "I only did what anyone would if they had the ability."

"But you were the one who healed her, and it's to you I'm grateful."

Eragon hesitated, then bowed his head, accepting Horst's gratitude. "What will you name her?"

The smith beamed at his daughter. "If it's agreeable to Elain, I thought we might call her Hope."

"Hope … A good name, that." _And don't we need some hope in our lives? _"And how is Elain?"

"Tired, but well."

Then Albriech and Baldor clustered around their father, peering at their new sister, as did Gertrude—who had emerged from the tent soon after Eragon—and once their shyness faded, the rest of the villagers joined them. Even the group of curious warriors pressed close to Horst, craning their necks in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the girl. After a while, the elves unfolded their long limbs and approached as well. Seeing them, people quickly stepped out of the way, clearing a path to Horst.The smith stiffened and pushed his jaw out like a bulldog's as, one by one, the elves bent and examined the girl, sometimes whispering a word or two in the ancient language to her. They did not seem to notice or mind the suspicious stares that the villagers cast at them.

When only three elves were left in line, Elva darted out from behind the tent where she had been concealing herself and joined the end of the procession. She did not have to wait long before it was her turn to stand before Horst. Although he appeared reluctant, the smith lowered his arms and bent his knees, but he was so much taller than Elva, she had to rise up on the tips of her toes in order to see the infant. Eragon held his breath as she gazed at the formerly deformed child, unable to guess her reaction through her veil.

After a few seconds, Elva dropped back onto her heels. With a deliberate pace, she started down the path that ran past Eragon's tent. Twenty yards away, she stopped and turned toward him.

He tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow. She nodded, a short, abrupt movement, then continued on her way.

As Eragon watched her go, Arya sidled up to him. "You should be proud of what you have accomplished," she murmured. "The child is sound and well formed. Not even our most skilled enchanters could improve on your gramarye. It is a great thing, what you have given this girl— a face and a future—and she will not forget it, I am sure…None of us will."

Eragon saw that she and all the elves were regarding him with a look of newfound respect—but it was Arya's admiration and approval that meant the most to him. "I had the best of teachers," he replied in an equally low voice.

Arya did not dispute his assertion. Together they watched the villagers mill around Horst and his daughter, talking excitedly.

Without taking his eyes off them, Eragon leaned toward Arya and said, "Thank you for helping Elain."

"You're welcome. I would have been remiss not to."

Horst turned then and carried the child into the tent so that Elain might see her newborn daughter, but the knot of people showed no signs of dispersing. When Eragon was fed up with shaking hands and answering questions, he said farewell to Arya, then slipped off to his tent and tied the flaps closed behind him.

_Unless we're under attack, I don't want to see anyone for the next ten hours, not even Nasuada_, he said to Saphiraas he threw himself onto his cot. _Will you tell Blödhgarm, please?_

_Of course_, she said. _Rest, little one, as will I_.

Eragon sighed and draped an arm over his face to block the morning light. His breathing slowed, his mind began to wander, and soon the strange sights and sounds of his waking dreams enveloped him—real, yet imaginary; vivid, yet transparent, as if the visions were made of colored glass—and, for a time, he was able to forget his responsibilities and the harrowing events of the past day.

And all through his dreams, there wound the cradle song, like a whisper of wind, half heard, half forgotten, and it lulled him, with memories of his home, into a childlike peace.


	10. DANCING WITH SWORDS

**Back to my favorite character's POV…Review please!**

**Disclaimer: I Do Not Own This. This Belongs To Christopher Paolini**

Ch.10: **DANCING WITH SWORDS**

Arya turned her head to the right and saw Eragon drumming his heels against the boulder he was sitting on, looking annoyed and bored. _So impatient_ she thought.

She, Eragon, Saphira, and Blödhgarm and his spellcasters were lounging on the bank next to the road that ran eastward from the city of Belatona: eastward through fields of crops; over a wide stone bridge that arched across the Jiet River; and then around the southernmost point of Leona Lake. There the road branched, one fork turning to the right, toward the Burning Plains and Surda, the other turning north, toward Dras-Leona and eventually Urû'baen.

Thousands of men, dwarves, and Urgals milled about before Belatona's eastern gate, as well as within the city itself, arguing and shouting as the Varden tried to organize itself into a cohesive unit. In addition to the ragtag blocks of warriors on foot, there was King Orrin's cavalry—a mass of prancing, snorting horses. And strung out behind the fighting part of the army was the supply train: a mile-and-a-half- long line of carts, wagons, and wheeled pens, flanked by the vast herds of horned cattle the Varden had brought from Surda and supplemented by what animals they had been able to appropriate from farmers along their path. From the herds and the supply train came the lowing of oxen, the braying of mules and donkeys, the honking of geese, and the whinnies and neighs of draft horses.

Arya disliked the waiting as well. She had realized that the hustle and promptness of elves were much better than compared to the humans. But she had been dealing with this for most of her life, so she was forced to become patient.

In her peripheral vision, she saw Eragon jump off the boulder and bounce up and down on his feet. He then trotted away from the road to a flat stretch of grass, drew his sword, and assumed an on-guard position. With a short exclamation he brought his swung his sword around his head and brought it down to less than an inch above the ground. He then continued practicing basic moves of sword-fighting.

Arya observed him curiously. The one time she had seen him do this was on their way to Ellesmera. That time, Eragon had fallen unconscious after a seizure had taken his back from the wound that the shade, Durza, had given him. Arya had stayed by his side for several hours. She recalled being sick with worry, not only because their only hope for defeating Galbatorix was crippled, but also because she had developed a sense of protection for him. It was he who saved her life and even up until now, she felt that she owed him great deal.

After a while, Eragon raised his voice and asked, "Will one or you cross swords with me for a few minutes. The elves looked at each other. Something was pushing Arya to comply with his request but then the elf, Wyrden, stepped forward and said, "I will, Shadeslayer, if it pleases you. However, I would ask that you wear your helm while we spar."

"Agreed," said Eragon.

Arya felt slightly disappointed but pushed that away. She had no reason to be disheartened.

Eragon ran back to Saphira, clambered up her side, reached into the saddlebag, and withdrew his helm. He ran back to the grassy area, donning his helm while he and Wyrden placed thin barriers to blunt their swords' edges. They then took up positions across from each other, bowed, and raised their swords.

Eragon advanced slowly towards Wyrden and Arya could see was trying to inch around his right side where Wyrden would have difficulty defending himself because he was right-handed. Wyrden feinted towards Eragon's knee, but then changed midstroke and tried to slash Eragon across the chest and neck. Eragon was faster though. He brought his sword up to meet Wyrden's and shouted "Ha!"

Eragon shoved Wyrden back then battered him with a series of blows. They continued fighting for several minutes. Eragon was able to touch Wyrden twice within a few exchanges, but soon allowed Wyrden to land four touches on him. Eragon soon lowered his sword and thank Wyrden after a while, looking displeased with himself.

Then he looked over at her where she was standing next to Saphira, a grin spreading across his face.

He walked over and said, "Arya what about out you? We've only sparred together that one time in Farthen Dur." His grin widened. "I've gotten a bit better since then."

"So you have," she replied.

"What say you, then?"

She pretended to cast a critical glance at the Varden. Not exactly knowing why, she was pleased inside, but debated whether or not to spar with him.

Finally she said, "Why not?"

As they walked to the level patch of grass, he said "You won't be able to best me quite as easily as before."

Arya simply replied, "I am sure you are right."

She remembered that time in Farthen Dur where she had sparred with him. She had gone easy on him just because of that fact that she was an elf and he was only human. But he had still showed great swordsmanship nonetheless. Now that he had elven abilities as well, she was not sure about how good he was.

As she prepared her sword, Arya remembered some things that her father had told her when teaching her how to fight with the blade when she was a lot younger. She recalled him saying, "Always look for the weakness in your opponent, Arya. Every person, elf, human, or Urgal has some if not a few." She remembered looking up at him, confused, and asked, "Do I have one?" He had laughed, deep and heartily, saying "Of course not! My daughter is the most fearsome and formidable opponent any one could come to face," and kissed her on the forehead.

Arya felt saddened by the memory. _It was such a long time ago….but it feels like yesterday._

As she walked away from Eragon to get into position, she recalled how her father had filled her days with happiness. Now that he was gone, there was a deep hole inside of her. Going back to his words, she realized that he was right. Everyone did have a weakness and as for her, she had quite a few even though she was not willing to admit it.

As she turned around to face Eragon who was about thirty feet away, she tried to look for a drawback in him. _That's easy _she thought. _His weakness…..is me._

A thought came to her. _It would be rather funny if I used that setback against him, wouldn't it?_ She asked herself, smiling inside. _But how?..._

Eragon then advanced swiftly. Suddenly an idea popped into Arya's head. She made no move to evade him but held her ground instead. When he was less than four yards away, she smiled at him, knowing that he would react in some way.

Arya saw him falter and then instantly closed the distance between them. She brought her sword down on him and he merely had the chance to raise Brisingr to deflect it. She then pushed his sword arm out of the way and stabbed him in his midsection. He fell to the ground on his back trying to breathe. Arya came over, worried for a second that she had knocked him unconscious, but then he let out a gasp and started breathing again.

Eragon slowly got back on his feet and leaned on his sword for support.

"You cheated," he said between gritted teeth.

"No," she replied, extremely amused, but withdrew from showing it in order not to hurt his feelings. "I exploited a weakness in my opponent. There is a difference." She could here murmurs and chuckles coming from the other elves.

"You think…that is a _weakness_?" he said.

"When we fight, yes," she countered. "Do you wish to continue?"

Eragon yanked Brisingr out of the sod, walked back to where he started, and raised his sword.

"Good," said Arya and mimicked his pose.

This time, Arya advanced first, her eyes never leaving Eragon's.

She twitched and Eragon flinched. Another step forward, then he swung with all his speed

and might. She blocked his cut to her ribs and replied with a jab toward his exposed armpit. The blunted edge of her sword slid across the back of his free hand, scraping against the mail sewn onto his gauntlet as he slapped the blade away. At that moment, Arya's torso was exposed, but they were too close for Eragon to effectively slash or stab. Instead, he lunged forward and struck at her breastbone with the pommel of his sword but she twisted out of the way, and the pommel went through

the space where she had been as Eragon stumbled forward. Arya twisted around again and wrapped her arm around his neck and pressed her swords against the side of his jaw.

She could tell he was getting frustrated and just to tease and irritate him further she whispered into his right ear saying, "I could have removed your head as easily as plucking an apple from a tree."

She released her hold and shoved him away. Eragon spun around angrily to find Arya waiting for him with her sword ready.

Giving in to his anger, Eragon sprang after her. Four blows they exchanged, each more terrible than the last. Arya struck first, chopping at his legs. He parried and slashed crosswise at her waist, but she skipped out of reach of Brisingr's glittering, sunlit edge. Without giving her an opportunity to retaliate, he followed up with a looping underhand cut, which she blocked with deceptive ease. Then she stepped forward and, with a touch as light as a hummingbird's wing, drew her sword across his belly.

Arya held her position at the conclusion of the stroke, her face mere inches from his. She felt uneasy at being so close to him and felt her cheeks flush.

With exaggerated care, they disengaged.

Eragon straightened his tunic and squatted next to her.

"I don't understand," he said quietly after a while.

Arya understood. She understood perfectly.

"You have become too accustomed to fighting Galbatorix's soldiers. They cannot hope to match you, so you take chances that would otherwise prove your undoing. Your attacks are too obvious—you should not rely on brute strength—and you have grown lax in your defense."

"Will you help me?" he asked. "Will you spar with me when you can?"

She nodded. "Of course. But if I cannot, then go to Blödhgarm for instruction; he is as skilled with a blade as I am. Practice is the only remedy you need, practice with the proper partners."

She was about to say more when she felt an unfamiliar presence against her mind. It was vast, frightening, and betrayed melancholy and sadness so great and deep. Then in a slow, deep voice, the dragon Glaedr spoke: "You must learn…to see what you are looking at."

Then the presence disappeared leaving a void.

Arya looked at Eragon. Judging from the expression on his face, she realized that he had heard it as well. So had Blödhgarm and the other elves who were murmuring beyond. Saphira was also craning her neck back to look at the saddlebag where Eragon must have put Glaedr's heart or heart, his precious Eldunari.

Arya and Eragon sprinted towards Saphira and the three of them joined their minds. They reached their thoughts toward the Eldunari trying to wake Glaedr from his stupor. Glaedr, however, ignored them taking only mere notice of their presence. At last they admitted defeat and withdrew to their respective bodies.

"Perhaps if we could touch his Eldunari…," Arya thought out loud.

Eragon sheathed Brisingr, then hopped onto Saphira's right foreleg and pulled himself into the saddle perched on the crest of her shoulders. He twisted round in his seat and began to work on the buckles of the saddlebags. He had unfastened one of the buckles and was picking at the other when the brazen call of a horn rang forth from the head of the Varden, sounding the advance. At the signal, the vast train of men and animals lurched forward, their movements hesitant at first, but becoming smoother and more confident with every step.

Eragon looked down at her looking torn but she waved and said, ""Tonight, we will speak tonight. Go! Fly with the wind!"

He quickly rebuckled the saddlebag, then slid his legs through the rows of straps on either side of the saddle and pulled them tight. Then Saphira crouched and, with a roar of joy, leaped out over the road. She unfurled her wings and flapped, climbing into the sky. Arya took one last look at Rider and Dragon. A sudden yearning erupted Inside of her.


	11. WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME NOW?

Arya's POV. Sorry for the wait guys. I just got my laptop back. Plz stick with me till the end and I'll love you forever! And review too even though this chapter may be a little crappy.

Ch 11: **WOULD YOU STILL LOVE ME NOW?**

Arya walked through the Varden's camp briskly, avoiding the eyes of the people she passed by and nodding to the ones whom she knew. The sun had almost set and darkness was overtaking the land. Arya was sweaty and tired from having sparred with Eragon for the last few hours. He had gotten a little better and had managed to win a few of their matches; though he seemed extremely frustrated with himself.

She couldn't blame him. _Especially_ _under all the pressure he is going through_ she thought.

Arya continued down the endless rows of tents until she got to the far east side of camp where her own tent was. She pushed the flap back and walked in.

_What a mess…._she thought to herself. The Varden had just settled down near the banks of Leona Lake a few hours ago. Within these few hours, Arya had been clashing swords and had been summoned to a long meeting with Nasuada about meeting up with Queen Islanzadi in Urû'baen within the next month or so. As a result, she was exhausted.

Arya unbuckled her sword belt and leaned it on the desk as she surveyed the tent. _Ugh…I'll just clean it up in the morning._ She stood there for a few minutes, tired enough to go to bed that second but hungry enough to go get something to eat.

Making her decision, Arya grabbed her sword and then walked right out. She walked south between a row of small tents all cramped together making her way to the kitchen. This was where the people from Carvahall were. As she strode down the narrow path she heard someone call, "Arya!"

Arya turned around and saw Katrina standing behind one of the tents, waving at her. She was washing some clothes in a bucket of water. Arya smiled and walked over. She had been friends with Katrina since a little while before the time of her wedding to Roran. Katrina had a strong personality, much like Nasuada minus maybe the ability to lead a whole army and overthrow the most powerful king in the whole history of Alagaesia. She was unlike many of the other women and she wasn't afraid or looked down upon Arya even though she was an elf. Katrina was a rational person according to her. Arya liked her best out of all the humans she knew from Carvahall. _Except Eragon of course…_

"Hello Katrina," Arya greeted her. "It has been a while since we have spoken."

"Yes it has," she replied, scrubbing a shirt vigorously. "How is everything? You look beaten."

Arya sighed and sat down on a stool. "I was busy trying to batter you brother-in-law with a sword," she responded flatly.

Katrina looked at her with a smirk on her face. "You should enjoy it. It's not everyday that you can bang around the last free Dragon Rider." She paused, and then added, "He must be all black and blue now, isn't he?"

"Indeed he is. I probably shouldn't have hit him that hard."

Katrina laughed. "I find it amazing how elves have all these abilities."

"It comes in handy a lot."

"It's incredible though. You have superior strength, speed, hearing, eyesight…and you can use magic—"

"That part doesn't seem to please your people very much," Arya interrupted.

"They're just afraid of elves because you can use magic but they can't. They know you're stronger than them and if you decide to attack, they would be defenseless."

"But what makes them think that we would attack?"

Katrina paused her washing for a moment and looked at Arya straight in the eye. "Typical human behavior," she said and Arya smiled. "Some of them are also afraid of Eragon now," she continued. He looks so elfish now and he's a Rider." Then she said with a hint of pride in her voice, "It's just because of Roran's coaxing and the desire to protect their families that they're continuing on with the Varden."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Arya asked, "Where is Roran?"

"Oh, didn't Eragon tell you? Nasuada sent him to land a siege on Aroughs." A look of worry overtook her face though disappearing instantly, but Arya could sense her anxiety

"He will make it back safely," Arya tried to reassure her. "He is a brave and courageous man."

"I know," Katrina replied quietly.

Arya studied her closely for a while. "You really love him a lot."

"Yes. I do," she replied. She sighed and then continued speaking softly. "I never told you about my mother, have I? Her name was Ismira. Sometimes during the night when I was younger, I used to sneak out of my bedroom and listen to my mother and father talk about memories they had from their past. The way they talked and looked at each other…..it was so full of love and affection. I never would have hoped to find someone that I would love like they loved each other. That is, until I met Roran. The first time I saw him was at one of the festivals in Carvahall. After I got to know him, I discovered how caring and dignified he was. Soon, I came to value our relationship more than anything. My father did not approve of Roran. Even though I loved and respected my father, I realized that Roran was…._the one_, you know?

Arya nodded though an excruciating sense of emotional pain washed over her.

Katrina continued, "After I was kidnapped by the Ra'zac and taken to Dras-Leona, I thought that my life was over. They would taunt me and kept me in darkness the whole time. It was terrible.

_I know how that feels as well_ Arya thought.

"Then, Roran and Eragon showed up. My elation was immeasurable knowing that there was someone who would come after me no matter what the situation or what they were faced with. And now this just adds to the happiness, "she said patting her stomach.

Arya could see that her stomach had become much larger than the last time they had met. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"It's not so bad," Katrina responded. "I could feel the baby moving and kicking. It hurts sometimes but it's not as bad as I thought it would be."

Silence.

"How have you been, Arya? You seem very uptight and stressed. With this war going on, that's expected but I think you need to find someway to relax."

"We have already discussed this matter, Katrina," said Arya, slightly exasperated. "I am fine."

"Fine, I'm not going to argue but it's clear that you're not." Her voice turned softer. "I understand that the things that you have been through in your life were difficult and unjust. No one, especially you, deserves to have to go through what you have gone through. But you need to find a way to heal yourself or else nothing will ever go right for you again." She paused. "Maybe try to take up a new hobby. Like knitting."

"Knitting?" asked Arya, confused. "What does knitting do?"

"It does a lot more than it seems to."

Arya stared at the ground. She didn't want to admit it, but Katrina was right. She wanted to get over it, to heal herself. She _had_ to. But she didn't know how. Knitting didn't seem like it was the right thing for her. It was too…_human_ she thought.

Arya heard her stomach grumble. It was time to leave otherwise, she would faint from hunger. She bid farewell to Katrina and strolled ahead.

It was late now and the stars were overhead. She could see Saphira's dark figure flying overhead. As she lowered her eyes, something caught her eye. There, rooted in the soil, was a Black Morning Glory, the same flower that Faolin had created for her.

Arya'a thought wandered back to her conversation with Katrina, about Roran and reflected on how she became so much different since Faolin's death.

She looked up at the stars and whispered, "Would you still love me now?"


	12. DRASLEONA

OK guys here's chapter 12. Review please! And for those of you who haven't check out my other fic. !

Ch 12: **DRAS-LEONA**

It was almost sunset. The Varden had been traveling for hours now and the city of Dras-Leona was visible in the horizon. Dozens of ships and boats were dotted along the shore of Leona Lake.

Arya looked up and saw Saphira's bright blue underside. Her scales shined magnificently as the rays of orange sunlight bounced off them. It was an awe-inspiring sight. She could see the other soldiers looking up and pointing as Saphira did a somersault in the air. On Arya's few occasion riding with Eragon on Saphira, she had learned that there was nothing more exhilarating than flying on a dragon.

As she leveled her eyes again with the ground, Arya could clearly see the towering shape of the city's immense cathedral. She grimaced as she remembered the story Eragon had told her about the city's gruesome religion. Dras-Leona had a foul and vulgar air about it. There was a trail of refugees streaming behind the city, probably trying to escape to Teirm or Uru'baen upon seeing the advance of the Varden.

Arya was carrying her pack and walking alongside Nasuada and the elven spellcasters. Nasuada gave the Jormundur the signal to stop as soon as they reached a plateau in a series of fields just southeast of Dras-Leona.

The men set to work making camp and assembling big machines of war that they had brought from Surda. Saphira had landed in a clearing off to the side and Eragon jumped off, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead as he ran to help the men flattening the fields of wheat and barley with long wooden planks to set up the tents.

Arya went off by herself to the northwestern most tip of the Varden's camp and began setting up her own tent. After she was done, she went back outside and worked alongside Blodhgarm and the rest of the elves as they helped finish set up the Varden's camp.

It was dark by the time they had finished. Nasuada ordered all the men, dwarves, and Urgals to bed.

Arya was exhausted from the day's travels. She crawled under the sheet and fell asleep very quickly.

_Arya was riding on her horse, Faolin and Glenwing on either side of her. _

_It was dark. They would have to make camp soon. Arya looked down at the sack resting on her lap to reassure herself that it was still there. Inside the sack, was the one of the most valuable objects in the whole of Alagaesia, a dragon egg. The last one that was not in Galbatorix's possession. It was her job to protect it and the whole future of Alagaesia could not afford for it to come to harm. _

_The wind whistled through the trees. Arya turned to look at Faolin, riding alongside her. He was sitting proudly atop his horse with his bow slung across his back and a sword pressed against his waist. He turned to look at her and their eyes locked. His eyes shone brightly as he smiled at her. Arya smiled in response. _

_Then everything happened so suddenly. Arya saw fire and Urgals charging at her. She struck at one and it fell to the floor. Urgal blood dripped from her sword. Arya turned around and then, someone jumped in front of her. He looked human except for his crimson hair and maroon eyes. Arya's eyes widened. _

_A Shade. _

_She whirled around to see where Faolin and Glenwing were but she caught no sight of them. She held on tighter to the sack and ran back up the trail. _

_Then, more Urgals came up from behind the trees in front of her and blocked her only escape routes. Arya was terrified. Not for herself, but for the safety of the egg. And Firnen and Glenwing. She turned back around just in time to see Glenwing on the ground, bleeding and not moving, and Faolin being struck down by an Urgal._

_Faolin! Arya screamed in agony. Tears blurred her eyes as she glanced back down at the egg. Desperate to save it, she conjured up a spell that would transport the egg elsewhere. To Brom in Carvahall. _

_The words escaped her mouth and she felt an immense amount of energy leaving her body. She knew it could have killed her but the egg was more important. _

_The last thing she saw was Faolin's dead body as she collapsed to the ground. _

Arya quickly sat up. She was sweating and breathing hard.

_It was just a dream_ she thought. She had had this same dream plenty of times before especially during her time in Gi'lead, but it never failed to shake her up just as badly every time she saw it.

A few minutes later, Arya got up and got dressed. She was still shuddering while thinking about the dream. She had woken up little later than usual and once outside, realized that the Varden was already assembling outside the gates of Draa-Leona. Arya picked up her pace and was soon next to Nasuada who was stop her battle horse.

Nasuada greeted her and then rode over to King Orrin where they gave the signal for two heralds, one bearing the Varden's standard and the other, Surda's.

At the base of the wall, the Varden's herald called forth, "Hail! In the name of Lady Nasuada of the Varden and King Orrin of Surda, as well as all free peoples of Alagaësia, we bid you open your gates so we may deliver a message of import unto your lord and master, Marcus Tábor. By it, he may hope to profit greatly, as may every man, woman, and child within Dras-Leona."

From behind the wall, a man who could not be seen replied: "These gates shall not open. State your message where you stand."

"Speak you for Lord Tábor?"

"I do."

"Then we charge you to remind him that discussions of statesmanship are more properly pursued in the privacy of one's own chambers rather than in the open, where any might hear."

"I take no orders from you, lackey! Deliver your message —and quickly, too!—ere I lose patience and fill you with arrows."

The herald continued. "As you wish. Our liegelords offer peace and friendship to Lord Tábor and all the people of Dras-Leona. We have no argument with you, only with Galbatorix, and we would not fight you if we had the choice. Have we not a common cause? Many of us once lived in the Empire, and we left only because Galbatorix's cruel reign drove us from our lands. We are your kin, in blood and in spirit. Join forces with us, and we may yet free ourselves of the usurper who now sits in Urû'baen. Should you accept our offer, our liegelords do guarantee the safety of Lord Tábor and his family, as well as whoever else may now be in the service of the Empire, although none will be allowed to maintain their position if they have given oaths that cannot be broken. And if your oaths will not let you aid us, then at least do not hinder us. Raise your gates and lay down your swords, and we promise you will come to no harm. But try to bar us, and we shall sweep you aside like so much chaff, for none can withstand the might of our army, nor that of Eragon Shadeslayer and the dragon Saphira."

Saphira roared in response to her name.

Above the gate, Arya saw a tall, cloaked figure climb onto the battlements and stand between two merlons, staring over the heralds toward Saphira Four other blackrobed people joined the man, and or those one was missing a forearm, two were missing a leg each, and the last of their company was missing an arm _and _both legs, and was carried by his or her companions on a small padded litter.

Arya recoiled in disgust. From the stories Eragon had told her, those were probably the priests of Helgrind.

The cloaked man threw back his head and uttered a peal of laughter that crashed and boomed with thunderous force. "None can withstand your might?" said the man, his voice echoing off the buildings. "You have an overly high opinion of yourselves, I think."

And with a gigantic bellow, the glittering red mass of Thorn leaped into the sky.

Arya then realized that the cloaked man was Murtagh. His voice boomed again. "Dash yourselves against the walls all you want; you will never take Dras-Leona, not so long as Thorn and I are here to defend it. Send your finest warriors and magicians to fight us, and they will die, each and every one. That I promise. There isn't a man among you who can best us. Not even you … _Brother_. Run back to your hiding places before it is too late, and pray that Galbatorix does not venture forth to deal with you himself. Otherwise, death and sorrow will be your only reward."

Arya clenched her fists and stormed back towards her tent.

She had had enough of death and sorrow.


End file.
